


As Black As Thunder

by cytara



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Edwardian setting, Engineering, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Genre typical melodrama, Gothic, Gothic Romance, Late 1890's Westeros, Lots of hand porn, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Slow Burn, Smut, Sorry Cersei this doesn't end well for you, Thriller, Victorian setting, angst with happy ending, crimson peak au, lots of dresses, lots of plants, twincest warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 87,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25187977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cytara/pseuds/cytara
Summary: After marrying the charming Jaime Lannister in a marriage of convenience, Brienne finds herself swept away to his remote Gothic mansion in Lannisport hills. Also living there is Cersei Lannister, Jaime’s alluring sister and protector of the home and its past. Brienne tries to bring the power of electricity to the public, decipher haunting mysteries of Casterly Rock and ignore the feeling Jaime’s heart belongs to someone else.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 665
Kudos: 361





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Crimson Peak AU based on the movie and Gothic works (mostly _Rebecca_ by Daphne du Maurier). It doesn’t matter if you’ve watched Crimson Peak or read/watched Rebecca, it’s okay to read on! I’ve been brewing this plot for six months, and this is not a scene by scene remake of Crimson Peak. It is not the same exact plot, either. I suggest calling this is a Crimson Peak AU with a few twists and new plot lines. One major difference: I dial down the supernatural element and violence of the film. This fic has no overt ghost scenes. I did, however, sprinkle in some seance flirting, so woohoo!
> 
> This is a Brienne POV only fic.
> 
> I’ve poured countless hours into research for this fic, and I hope it adds to the experience! I try to represent later Victorian years in a Westeros setting.
> 
> Give a round of applause to my two wonderful beta readers, @theunpaidcritic and @2manycharacters!
> 
> I adore listening to non-lyrical music while writing and reading. When I was 17, I listened to this song while I read _Rebecca_. Now I'm listening to the same song as I write this work. Piano, violin and cello—this song is dark, hopeful and romantic—it's perfect to represent this story. It's a cover of David Bowie song. [Artist is Ahn Trio, This Is Not America ](https://open.spotify.com/track/49WmLXTw04jOVMoFHR8nd7)
> 
> There is a decent amount of Valyrian dialogue in this work. Feel free to look up the translations or let them remain mysterious, it’s up to you! Dialogue critical to the plot is revealed. Here is the site I used to translate English to Valyrian: https://lingojam.com/EnglishtoValyrianTranslator
> 
> I include several characters of color and I describe non-violent effects of racism in late 1800’s culture. Racism isn’t the main conflict of this work, but I want to include stories of color. Since this entire story is through Brienne’s perspective, we have limited insight into people of color throughout this fic. If anyone has particular triggers or questions about these topics please message me on Tumblr.

Last night she dreamt she went to Casterly Rock again. Dark sky revealed no thin gray finger of smoke from the chimney. In her worn leather boots, Brienne stepped into her dream, beyond weakened and rusted iron gates. Nothing appeared familiar. Nature punctured the grounds with its power, year after year, and converted the area feral. Yellowed beech leaves and limbs still tangled above the drive like a tunnel, and the driveway narrowed into an earthly labyrinth. Nameless shrubs and plants surrounded the once ordered path. Manicured gardens were a falsehood and entropy always prevailed.

She walked further. Her feet stepped onto spongy earth rather than jagged gravel or hardened dirt. Rain and flood waters seeped into the abandoned grounds and refused to yield. Through a clearing, a thicket of birch saplings wept for nutrients. They shriveled—refused sunlight from the oppressive and choking elm above them. Mature, scaled roots stabbed through the earth like ancient bones, ensuring the young birches would never survive here. Alongside them, blonde chrysanthemums wilted underneath the moon’s glow.

Like water, Brienne flowed down the sloped grounds through the path of least resistance. Where dahlia blooms would have dominated, as they did before, fire colored heleniums from across the sea spread over low hills and between thick oak trunks. Modest but persistent crocus flowers huddled underneath the oak’s protection, away from rain and weather. Vines tortured and tied the crocus to the oak’s bark. They chained the two unsuspecting plants into a permanent marriage.

At the smell of oleander Brienne stopped, wanting to avoid the monster shrubs near the end of the driveway. She could not decide whether to visit the field of red carnations; for if her paradise changed, her memory would lament. No, in her memory, the soft, velvet touch of flower petals dragged against her skin. Delicate petals bruised under her weight, fragrant and vibrant. Brienne veered away and to the right, towards the sea and towards the house.

The sight of Casterly Rock stunned her heart. For a time, it was her home—a once promised future. Stone climbed three stories high, silent and dark. Arched windows showed no light and no progress. Fingers of vines crept up its walls, unchecked by shears. Piles of rotting logs squatted by doorways with no doors. The sound of silence gave her an old urge to bite her nails. Behind her, the quiet sea left her alone. Not a drop moved.

Through an open wound in Casterly Rock’s walls, Brienne let herself in. Shadows inside disappeared under the sudden glow of candles and charred embers in the fireplace. Their house breathed again, with creaking ribs made of wood and lungs filled with must. All of its secrets laid bare in her memory. She stood in the library, their place for afternoon tea. Books watched her gaze around the old room, full of dark panels, peeled wallpaper and fossilized furniture. The mansion looked like yesterday in her memory. Windows, partly open, allowed a chilled autumn air to blow past swaying curtains. A folded newspaper rested on a wooden ottoman. Beside it, fingerprints pressed onto sketchbooks, a slide rule paused in mid-calculation and _Hand Book of Calculations for Engineers_ opened to a crinkled page.

A thump resounded on the floor. Nora, loyal, smart and young again, curled into a ball and tapped her tail on the hand-knotted rug. Her sable and smooth coat shined, and her folded ears focused on a distant laughter—a woman’s voice. Brienne faced the voice, armored with nothing but an understanding that ghosts whispered in this house. Horrors tarnished her memory. Fear lingered at Casterly Rock more than air itself. Hurried footsteps ran away and took the light with them. 

Brienne stood in darkness. Wood crumbled beneath her weight. Casterly Rock lost the battle of entropy. Humans stole heat and energy from the earth to build this masterpiece, and earth returned to claim back its resources. It was never Brienne’s. It was a ruin now, defenseless against the forces of nature. In her dream, floods never touched Casterly Rock. Her dream tasted hollow. 

Whenever she would wake, she would breathe through the aching memory; she would not speak of it.

She wondered at what point she was destined to come across Casterly Rock, with its neglected bones and mysteries—nothing like Hura Falls, her hopeful beacon. They were hers no longer, instead abducted by greed and nature. Brienne supposed her destiny intended this fate for her. When he walked into her father’s office, warning signs surrounded her, but like most waves of light, she could not see them.

Years ago, at the turn of the century, her journey began with the ring of a bell above her father’s office doorway. People came and left the office as needed, and Brienne ignored them all. Grief required ignorant distraction. She chose to tinker and stare at her recreation of the first telephone, one of her last attempted projects before she attended university. Her eyes stared into the past—a long lost item she forgot she created. Brienne preferred her new and bright flashlight as a source of light, but she needed its battery to test her self-made speaker and receiver made of scrap wood, wires, metal, membrane and liquid. Thus, she stood at the front desk near the street facing windows in natural sunlight. Scrutinizing eyes peered over details and searched for precise points of contact for every wire. If she made a single mistake, her telephone would not work.

A man cleared his throat.

Brienne straightened her posture and her focus abandoned her mental salvation. She expected to see one of the movers, but she saw a new, unfamiliar man. His light eyes browsed over her face far too long. He said, “I am here to see Mr. Tarth.” His voice, deep and unassuming, did nothing to dull the sharp edge of his words. They cut into her.

This man walked into the wrong place. Her nails, red from bites, dug into her palm in an attempt to hide her distress, but her black dress displayed her grief. With pleats too numerous to count, she wore black silk; its harsh shade making her as pale as death itself. Brienne despised society’s demand to wear mourning clothes. Death edged its way into life, but stale culture required it. Brienne would rather pack away her mourning dress and slip on her bloomers, as they allowed her to ride a bicycle. She dreamed of the wind combing her hair again on a peaceful bicycle ride. Potential whispered gossip from polite society kept her in her mourning dress. If she was not too careful, gossip intensified like energy in a condenser—ready to shock her with discharge.

The man in front of her wore as much black as her: black frock coat, trousers, satin waistcoat and cravat. White linen shirt peeked through, more so with a stiff collar. The man pulled off his black hat, his black leather gloves. He stood in the entryway, one meter away from her. Perhaps this man grieved as well. Given how frequent death won its battles, no one escaped mourning. The man’s handsome face tilted to its side and still awaited her response.

She swallowed. “I’m afraid Mr. Tarth has died.”

His expression wrinkled and furrowed into a strong, yet comely, frown.

Uncomfortable by seconds of silence, Brienne said, “Did you have a meeting scheduled with him?”

“I did.” His eyes averted away from Brienne, a relief of heavy contact. He gazed beyond rows of desks and half-empty shelves. A dozen people packed items throughout the office, half leaving and half entering behind them. Papers shuffled into boxes, metal clanked its echoes against the walls. Her father’s art and large photographs were the first items to leave. They left dust stains and outlines on gold, striped wallpaper. The man said, “I come from Lannisport to discuss a large purchase of iron. Who is the new man in charge?”

“There is no man in charge. His will stated to dissolve the company. I can show you to another steelmaker or furnace in town?” Brienne clasped her hands in front of her in an attempt to appear more welcoming.

“Forgive my lack of manners, I can find someone to help me.”

Like every man, this man questioned her importance or he found her unfortunate to look upon. Perhaps both. She inherited her father’s height, eyes, crooked nose and poor hair, and her mother, gone too soon, passed on freckles, large lips and pale skin. Brienne could not hide her appearance, but many underestimated her importance. She recently graduated as one of the first women with a degree in science, but the road to achieve such a task twisted until her determination almost snapped. Her classmates, all male, pointed out her colorful silks and lace in lectures with snickers. Colleagues, more stubborn than her, continued their mocking well into the final year. Older classmates ignored her. Professors either gawked or avoided contact altogether... until she aced a calculation or she exposed her father’s identity. As the top iron producer in King’s Landing, her father held a wealthy and politically astute position in society. He held his position no longer.

Mourning her father’s death made her acceptance into society much harder than she anticipated. Everyone expected her to cry and seclude herself. No, she wanted to shed her dreary black fabrics and find employment. With no husband, no employment and a handful of friends, Brienne found herself longing for purpose. Selwyn Tarth served the community, bringing wealth to many people. She wanted to continue his legacy and help others with her knowledge, made possible by her father allowing her to receive an education. 

Her father would have wanted her to lament quickly and stay busy, as he did when Brienne’s mother passed away almost two decades ago. He would want her to take charge in her own way.

With a small squeeze of her fingers, still clasped together, she said, “I am Brienne Tarth. His daughter.”

The man’s eyes looked at her; his mouth parted, and his feet stepped closer. In one swift step, he reached out and placed his bare hand on hers. His sudden contact left her speechless. She stared at his touching hand with tightened brows. His rough and warm skin covered her knuckles as he said, “My truest condolences.”

Her eyes lifted up to confront this unknown man and his forwardness. Now standing closer, he stood four or five centimeters shorter than her. His shoulders, either from his classic frock coat or his naturally broad frame, outshadowed hers. Form fitted, with enough room to breathe in his jacket, vest and trousers, his body was comparable to a dressing model’s in a magazine advertisement. Beyond the worn and dull spots of his outfit, his face resembled polished gold. Unlike Brienne, he possessed a world of symmetry: sharp jaw, strong nose and prominent cheeks. Identical creases framed his lips and may not have been visible if he grew out his faint stubble. Waves of light hair framed his face, but his eyes, more dynamic than any other feature, frowned as if he mourned more than her. 

Strange methods of comfort were not welcome if they brought the pain of scandal or gossip. Brienne bent her head away and turned towards her desk. A coldness stained her skin the moment he pulled his hand back to his side.

Aware of his own transgression, he said, “My apologies, grief is—”

“A process.” Brienne faced away from him and fixated on her telephone, but her mind focused on the soft, unseen imprint on her hand. She failed to revive the last memory of a man touching her. 

“A process we all know too well,” he said, voice colored in his own sense of sadness. He returned his hands to hold his hat and gloves behind his back. “How long? Have I missed the funeral?”

“He died a month ago. An accident in his Dornish factory.” An urge to nibble at her nails drove her to reach forward for the telephone—her pleasant distraction. In truth, she grieved before her father died, due to a malignant cancer in his abdomen. He would have died within weeks regardless of his fatal accident. Society deemed grieving before death morbid; another reason to despise the suffocating, old culture around her. Her father knew her capable of work, filled with knowledge and independence. She smiled to herself.

“Is this contraption his?”

This man’s persistence broke her thoughts. She considered looking at the man to claim her project with pride, but her eyes averted far and away from him. “I made it years ago.”

“A peculiar prototype,” he said and stepped closer. Brienne nudged a step back and allowed the man space to observe her work. A look of passion ran over him; his eyes peered over the telephone as if she returned to her Advanced Laboratory course and he was her professor. His full head of hair and features fooled her into the false thought they were of the same age. Upon closer look, and with his eyes busy judging her work, he appeared several years older than her. Brienne stood straighter. Her sex contributed to negative judgement and her youthful age of two-and-twenty made her an infant in the professional world. “Brass. Mouthpiece—” he reached forward, fingers threatening to touch her project. Brienne suffered a sharp inhale, and his hand stopped. His eyes, however, looked at her while he crouched to level himself with the object. He narrowed his gaze and said, “A primitive telephone. You dabble in the world of inventing.” 

Far more engineer than inventor, the label made her hold back a wince with pressed lips. Her telephone may have been plain, but his critique jabbed her. She cared little for a stranger’s assessment, especially one from a brazen source. The crudeness of her telephone failed to flush her cheeks or deter her. Men’s shock and awe when she revealed her wit amused her at best. “I do not dabble, and I am not an inventor. I am an engineer.”

He straightened his back. He squinted for a moment, followed by a sudden relaxing of his tense features. “An engineer, you say? What do you engineer other than old telephones? And where is the hand-crank?”

He overlooked her favorite part: the battery. She gave a faint smile, weak from months of lacking intellectual conversations. She talked with textbooks more than bright minds. “There is none. It uses a battery instead.”

He nodded and rubbed his chin. “You attended university?”

Brienne’s chest filled with memories of walking across campus, and she smiled during her quick daydream. Those heavy books gave her arms thicker muscles, or so she thought. Despite consistent bullying, she relished the privilege to learn at a university. She picked and sifted through negative memories like a sieve, choosing to remember her fondest memories above the rest. “I graduated. I enjoy learning,” she said, ready to defend her interest in equations rather than piano.

“I learned more slang and tricks than engineering, I’m afraid. How men cheat and swindle their way to the top. And one by one, we were all plucked out to make railroads, buildings and factories. I chose to build something different. As for my classmates, the boys who failed to study, they can cheat a professor. But in the real world, you can’t cheat physics. Does this work?” He pointed back to the telephone, barely allowing her a chance to comprehend his words.

“I’m not sure.” Brienne glanced away when he looked her way again. “I found it while packing today.”

His lips twisted into a smile and revealed white, straight teeth. He said, “What a rare find. How long does your wire lead? We can test it now; I can say a few words and you listen to the receiver.” 

Brienne was no fool. She narrowed her vision for a moment, but the heat of his eyes made her glance towards her telephone. This man and her were not formally introduced, and she avoided strangers. His motivations escaped her, and his name remained unknown. Nothing inclined her to ask for it, either. His mysterious reasoning for such engagement in conversation evaded her. Possessing neither beauty or charm, she waited, but the gleam in his eye shined towards her work. Sweat seeped from her palms due to his interest. He knew her name and her father’s legacy. If the telephone failed, he would blame poor expectations on her woman’s hands. If the telephone worked, he would compare her to her father. Her father commanded respect with his work, and this was more of a hobby than a reflection of her true capabilities. When faced with a real opportunity to show herself worthy of the engineer title, the chance of imperfection howled in her ears.

“I believe some things are best left to the past,” she said. “I do have to get on with other work and tasks—”

“I see,” he said, his eyebrows raised and tensed like a flicker of a flame. Soon after, his face clouded in a blank stare towards the telephone while his right foot tapped the floor beneath them.

A shy, uneasy colt, Brienne overlooked his wounded pride when she declined his offer altogether. Her father invariably commented on her stubbornness; how one’s strength morphed into one’s weakness. A timid voice inside her head considered to change her mind or say, “Maybe another time.” Her rigid lips remained closed and forced into a faint and proper farewell smile.

One hand at a time, he slipped his leather gloves on. “A quick glance, I know.” With the tip of his hat onto his head, he grew in height. The man lifted his chin and smirked. “I would place a wager on it working. At the very least, an easy repair, if needed. A shame you are not a couple decades older, or you would have the honor of claiming the invention yourself. I will leave you to your privacy.”

Again, his unexpected words stung, and she no longer kept her face a mask. Her cheeks flushed. To her luck, he turned and bowed a farewell. “Good day, Miss Tarth.”

Brienne remained still as he walked out through the glass door, bells ringing a couple seconds. Her eyes followed him, and his back remained to her. Outside the office, he stood in front of a rather new car and gazed at his pocket watch.

“You know that man?” Loras’s voice startled Brienne and she snapped to look at him. A thin layer of sweat formed below Loras’s golden curls. Humid, summer air stuck to the men hard at work packing her father’s documents. He stood with both of his hands on his hips and stared towards the window as if he peeped through a keyhole to obtain gossip.

Brienne would have smirked, but she remained plain and shook her head. “No. One of my father’s clients, I suppose.” Her gentle hands placed her telephone and wires back into the box where she found it. She plucked out the battery and held it in her palm like a precious fledgling. Upon lifting the box, Loras reached forward and accepted it. She welcomed his help.

They both looked towards the windows when a loud rumble came from outside the office. The mysterious man cranked his car to life and climbed in. Its volcano shakes thundered and the car rolled underneath shade provided by oaks and birches. 

Loras leaned over to peer through the window. His tight hands gripped the box against his chest. He smiled, followed by a quick frown. “Renly spotted him a few days ago. That must be him. He’s the man who owns Casterly Rock. He still looks sad. Renly says he can’t get over his wife’s death.”


	2. Chapter 2

Brienne’s skin baked underneath black fabric absorbing sunlight. She sat on a thick muslin blanket with Renly, Loras, Lady Olenna and a wicker basket. Olenna and Brienne’s father knew each other, thus, Brienne played with Tyrells as children. They fought as children, but Olenna ended their quarrels with a single glare. They shared a picnic of roast beef and cheese sandwiches in one of the most elegant grounds in King’s Landing: Cobbler Graveyard. She and dozens of others appreciated the warm day at the graveyard. To spend time near her parents’ graves increased her energy. Her fingers ached from drawing endless designs in her secluded home.

“Same flowers as last week,” Renly said. Renly came into Brienne’s life at university as the only classmate never to judge her. She welcomed him home for holiday three years ago and Renly hit it off with Loras. His comely face gazed around the mottles of purple crocus flowers scattered throughout the lawns. “And last year.” 

She looked around with him, faintly smiling at the flowers and trees of the graveyard. As a child, she delayed her bedtime in order to read botany textbooks. Brienne squeezed her sandwich, halfway eaten. She sat with a black parasol and her legs pressed together, bent at the knee, like a proper lady. Her lungs appreciated the fresh air and her mind enjoyed her company. 

“When will we have a picnic at grandfather’s grave?” Loras asked. He leaned on his elbows while his eyes followed invisible paths of birds and bees. Bushes and shrubs flowered in summer’s celebration of bloom. A bee hummed near Brienne in search of scent, noisy until it crept into a flower and fell silent. In random increments, moths escaped the wicker basket and flailed around to find shadowed cover.

“I’m in no rush to reunite,” Olenna said and swatted away a moth. Brienne bit back an amused smile while the old woman looked at her grandson. “That man is infinitely more interesting below ground than above it. I’ll join him soon enough. You can visit us both with your lemonade and lamb shank picnic. Pour me a glass, will you? Tell your father not to bring his fencing sword. I’m afraid our skeletons could best him in a duel and we should save the man his embarrassment.”

“He and mother never come to picnics,” Loras said with a frown. Brienne knew almost nothing about Loras’s father or mother except the occasional spite or disappointed ramble from Olenna. 

“Marriage is hard work indeed. I forget why anyone partakes.” Olenna gave a closed lip smile.

“I daresay, Brienne, you would have been married by now,” Renly said. He wore a dapper beige three piece suit and sat crossed legged without a bat of his eye. He leaned closer to Brienne and smirked.

Brienne hummed and glanced away. Her father wished she married before he died. He wanted her to prepare for courtship and marriage in the spring, despite Brienne emphatically opposing his wishes. Her father ordered a coming out dress, a beautiful cream dress adorned in silk. She frowned at the memory of him asking her to try on the dress because she refused. Its obvious wealth made her throat tighten. It would make her protrude more in society—where men and women alike knew of her wealth well enough. Now, without her father, her purpose was to grieve. She wondered if marriage felt worse. The way Olenna regarded the subject, she considered the possibility.

Olenna tilted her head to the side, and the shadow below the brim of her hat barely covered her narrowed eyes towards Renly and Loras. “You sound interested enough to propose your own hand in marriage.” She smirked. She whispered to Renly, “We all know your heart belongs to another.”

Loras smirked and Renly pursed his lips. Brienne scowled at them both, and Loras’s smile grew wider. Brienne may never find love in a man or marriage, at least not soon, but she helped her closest friends find it. Her heart pinched and wept the moment she realized Renly loved someone else. Classic novels fooled her mind to think such an intelligent, noble, and beautiful man would desire her. Even after he revealed his romantic intentions for Loras, a man, he maintained Brienne’s friendship. She more than welcomed his kindness.

Olenna, privy to their trysts, smiled again and said, “Let us girls do what we want.”

Brienne smiled and shared a quick glance of understanding with Olenna, a widow for decades. Equally as wealthy as Brienne, Olenna’s independence inspired her.

“So long as it isn’t that clergyman,” Loras said.

Renly scoffed. “What was his name?” He chuckled and flicked pollen off of his jacket.

“Hyle,” Loras complained. 

Renly winced and shook his head. “Dear gods no.”

Brienne cringed, and she shared the expression with Renly and Loras. Hyle, along with other men, sought after her hand in marriage for her wealth. Brienne preferred honesty, something Hyle lacked, and he preferred religious dedication, something Brienne questioned. She preferred science treatise over holy texts. If her education, appearance and ideals failed to scare men away, her inheritance enticed them. She denied them all... all two of them.

“Your father is still with us. I can hear his loud voice now,” Loras said, his voice genuine.

Light wind rustled. Fragrant grass and floral operas floated around them. Brienne did not believe in ghosts, as science never proved their existence. One’s mind, however, felt comfort at the thought of their presence. Solitude would not swallow her if his soul stayed by her side. Goosebumps rippled over her neck, as if an unseen hand touched her. Brienne reached back and touched the skin underneath her tucked hair. She felt nothing but wind.

Renly nodded. “Yes. He’ll give you a sign.”

“A sign for marriage?” Loras asked, his eyebrows tense.

“No, I meant employment.”

Brienne focused on a ring-sized tag in the muslin blanket. She toyed with the idea of her father reincarnating into a butterfly. Even if he became a butterfly, she would not be able to talk with him. How would the sight of a butterfly comfort her when she would rather see him alive and well in the flesh? 

Loras whispered, “That’s him, is it not?”

With an upward look, Brienne followed Loras’s gaze across the graveyard lawn. The unabashed man from her father’s office walked across the grounds a few dozen meters away. He must have stayed in King’s Landing to find a new source of iron. Or perhaps he stayed for an opportunity to travel. When Renly’s older brother died, Renly attended three dances with Brienne during his mourning period _and_ continued attending university. Grief limited no man. Brienne looked away, growing hot, even under shade. She swallowed her childish emotion and chose to give the man his privacy. Her lost eyes observed the moss crawling along her mother’s headstone.

Renly, however, rose to his feet and dusted off his trousers. “I know him, from my time in Lannisport—I shall introduce all of you.”

“Renly—” Brienne said, but he stepped off the blanket and towards the solitary man. Renly’s extroversion continued to bring trouble for Brienne, who preferred meaningful conversations with a select few.

“Let’s have a look at him—help me to standing, dears, but don’t make me look feeble,” Olenna said, ready to spar with her tongue.

Loras and Brienne offered their hands and stood in unison while Renly and the man approached. Loras smiled, Olenna squinted and Brienne lowered her head as if she were a schoolboy. She stood taller than everyone and found contrast between the man’s weathered boots and Renly’s polished leather. 

Renly’s words smiled as he said, “Meet Lady Olenna Tyrell, Baroness of Highgarden Hall.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the man said. His tone deepened since their last encounter.

Olenna cleared her throat—a small reminder for Brienne not to sulk. Her private displays of grief received poorly in public. Brienne lifted her eyes. The man, shoulders back and head slightly lifted, shared a nod with Olenna. Loras waited next to Brienne with his hands clasped behind his back.

“This is Mr. Jaime Lannister, owner of Casterly Rock in Lannisport,” Renly said and gestured towards the man, now identified. 

“And Hura Falls,” Mr. Lannister said. He tucked his chin lower and smiled towards Olenna, who stood much shorter than him.

Olenna ignored the bait to ask about his additional claim, but he continued his smile.

Renly continued, “This is her grandson, and my friend, The Honorable Loras Tyrell. And Mr. Lannister, this is Miss Brienne Tarth, daughter to the late Mr. Selwyn Tarth.”

Mr. Lannister smiled at Loras, nodded and gazed at Brienne. His eyes matched the swaying grass behind him; his expression captured her like a snare. She tangled her hands together in front of her like roots twisting into the ground. 

He said, “A pleasure to meet you both.” His spell dissolved the moment he looked to Olenna. He asked, “Is Highgarden Hall named after Highgarden Castle?”

“Yes. A distant relation, nonetheless,” Olenna said and forced a smile. “I would much rather rot away in the Reach. Please join us for our picnic. We have a handful of sandwiches.”

Mr. Lannister smiled faintly at her response, no doubt due to Olenna’s unusual statement. Her title and age gave her freedom to speak as she wished. Few people reacted in front of her, but behind her back she gained a reputation for a tart tongue. Olenna cared little. 

Mr. Lannister said, “I appreciate your hospitality, but I am here for exercise. I hear there is a river and bridge down these slopes?”

“If you are suggesting a running competition, you must stop while you are ahead, Mr. Lannister. I win every match I participate in. Loras, get them to clean this mess up and we will share a walk with Mr. Lannister.”

“Of course,” Mr. Lannister said. He controlled his smile from growing further. “I hear it’s always courteous to let a woman finish first.”

Grumbles of air escaped Olenna as she stepped forward. “Oh, you won’t see any of that around here.”

Renly and Loras shared a smirk. They stepped forward, following outside Mr. Lannister and Olenna while Brienne strolled behind; her hands clasped against her stomach. This man stood the same height as Renly and a few centimeters taller than Loras. He mirrored Olenna’s reasonable pace. Behind them, Olenna’s servants packed the picnic.

“How does King’s Landing fair in your eyes and where are you staying?” Renly asked.

“Quite a large city. Summer is nice, but very different in Lannisport,” Mr. Lannister said, his voice carried behind him due to the river’s slight breeze. His hands entangled within themselves behind his back; his thumb slowly dragging over his palm. Brienne’s eyes sank their feet as they walked past headstones, bushes and trees. “I’m staying at the Rosby Hotel,” he said.

Renly said, “That’s quite far from here.”

“It’s not far with four wheels and an engine.”

Renly laughed. “How am I not surprised you have your own car? Steam powered?”

“Not at all. I opted for gasoline.”

“Miss Tarth is a staunch supporter of electric.” Renly spun with a tucked chin and evil grin, as if he wanted Mr. Lannister to notice her. 

Brienne’s face aflame, she gave Renly a sour expression until Mr. Lannister looked back and slowed his steps. She had no interest to interact with him—none at all. The cards, however, were already laid out. Olenna and Loras pivoted mid-walk while Mr. Lannister asked Brienne, “Are you? I presume you appreciate electric cars due to their ease of use?” His sharp smile taunted her.

Brienne stopped. She held a firm gaze against him; her blood heating to a boil.

Olenna paused and said, “I wouldn’t get into a verbal battle with Miss Tarth, Mr. Lannister. She’s as bright as a bulb.”

Her height an advantage, Brienne broadened her shoulders and stepped forward. 

Mr. Lannister’s eyes and feet followed her as she resumed their regular pace. “It is not my intent to argue,” he said, “I merely want to know your opinion.”

Brienne pressed her lips together; she kept her focus forward and away from him. “My opinion, Mr. Lannister, is that gasoline cars are a nuisance. They reek. They’re loud. I do not care for the complication of use, although I have chosen not to learn the crank or gear changes. But women and men as a whole deserve to have a car that is easy, safe and comfortable to drive.”

“Gasoline cars will rule the world, mark my words. Gasoline is a cheap product. It was seen as a waste until now. Electric cars are simply impractical. One can only drive a finger lengths away before it dies.”

“Here in the city, that is not an issue.” Her forehead wrinkled and she refused to glance at him.

“Gasoline handles both rural and city with ease. I trust they will improve over the years. At least we agree to dislike steam power.”

Brienne frowned, as she had yet to reveal her opinion about steam power, but she found them impractical for winter driving. Gasoline cars deserved a battery, and certain people protested forward thinking of electricity. Her thoughts screamed in her head. She forced a smile and looked towards the humming river. A brave glance at him revealed he stared at her. Her smile dropped.

“I will place my bets with Miss Tarth,” Olenna said. The ground beneath them sloped downward, and she reached out her hand for Loras to hold as support for a moment. Olenna sighed and said, “I understood half of her language when she wired my estate.”

Mr. Lannister stared at Brienne as if she were an illusion. He soon averted his eyes away from her, but the weight of his gaze lingered like the humid air around them. He said, “Now that is an advantage of the city: power. I’m working on a project myself at home to bring power to my area, which is sparsely populated but very beautiful. Lannisport is the closest town to Casterly Rock, but it is miles away.”

“We don’t just have power here,” Renly said and smiled. “We have carnivals, operas, theater, _dances_.”

Loras walked closer to Brienne and brushed her arm with his. She looked over, and they shared a quick smirk together.

Olenna said, “Men and their obsession with balls this and balls that. Highgarden Hall is hosting a ball. Do consider yourself invited. It would be a shame for you to visit King’s Landing and consider this exercise as entertainment. Does your Lannisport host balls?”

“This is great entertainment for me and work as well,” Mr. Lannister said. He smiled at her words. “I hope to see the bridge along the river. And yes, we have hosted balls at Casterly Rock but I’m afraid—” He frowned as his face shadowed. “It’s been some time since... I’ve hosted one.”

Renly’s chin tucked lower. Brienne continued to watch Mr. Lannister. His eyebrows tightened and relaxed. His sadness echoed. The birds stopped their songs, and the upcoming roar of the river drowned out the sound of their footsteps on grass. Her short boot heels pierced the soft grass and mud as she walked, each step careful. Her vision returned to the slanted earth they crossed to gain access to the river. 

“Understandable,” Olenna said. “It’s been many, many moons since I’ve visited Lannisport. Perhaps back when I had colored hair and my largest wrinkle was at my elbow. Our ball is to be held on Monday, and I hope you do not have other plans. Unless you have a pile of invitations to pick and choose from at your leisure?”

“Fear not. I am the most loyal man you will ever meet,” Mr. Lannister said.

They reached the end of descent, but a small and sharp ledge half a meter deep required a large step. Loras hopped down and extended his hand for Olenna to help her down. Renly and Mr. Lannister stepped next. Loras engaged Renly in immediate conversation about the lack of freshwater fish and Olenna fussed with detailed lace at the edge of her sleeve. Mr. Lannister pivoted towards Brienne, and he held out his hand. Palm up and fingers relaxed, he mirrored an olive branch. He waited for her patiently, without word and without devious smile. But Brienne looked away from his hand and thrust herself forward alone, landing with a muted hop.

His hand fell to his side and clenched into a brief fist. He, too, looked away.

He turned and walked towards the bridge. Loras strained his lips as he shared a quick look with Brienne. Perhaps she may have been rude. Her nails itched. She ignored her guilt and followed the group. 

Together, the five of them walked beside the Blackwater River. Mud lined the sharp river bank alongside an edge painted with dabs of smooth pebbles. They walked on an uneven cobblestone path. Mr. Lannister concentrated on the suspension bridge farther down the walkway. The rest of the party followed him. Above them, trees scratched the sky and sunlight bled through their limbs. Loras walked alongside his grandmother. He whispered about the feast planned for the ball. Brienne knew they kept quiet to not make her envious. If she attended Highgarden’s ball, whispers would propagate, no matter how badly she wanted to attend. Dances mortified her, but the pleasure of lighting Olenna’s estate for the first time in public would almost be worth it.

“A suspension bridge is wonderful. A marvel of ingenuity. Longer main spans, less material,” Mr. Lannister said.

Renly nodded and smiled at Brienne. 

“What do you think?” Mr. Lannister peered behind him and his eyes latched onto Brienne’s. 

Renly turned to ask Loras a question and a stab of sickness overcame her heart at once. She could not ignore Mr. Lannister, such behavior would be rude, more rude than the denial of his hand, so she gazed upon the bridge and said, “I think it’s very… useful.”

“Useful?”

“Yes.” 

They were alone now. She felt like a cow tricked into the slaughter because they led her into a maze of social interaction she misunderstood. Brienne waited for Mr. Lannister to attack.

“I’m going to gamble and say you are not a civil engineer.”

His awareness and soft smile softened her edge a bit. “Electrical,” she said.

Eyebrows raised, he inhaled a deep breath and released his hands from behind his back. “I should have known—not every engineer volunteers to wire an entire estate.”

“I only drew the plans.” 

“Those plans are entirely the reason why I don’t do that work myself. I pay brilliant people to do that for me.”

“If you want power, I’m afraid wires must be involved,” she said, and he smiled. “Did you find the iron you were looking for, Mr. Lannister?”

“Call me Jaime, if it pleases you.”

Brienne averted her eyes to the river. Unlike Renly and Loras, she was a nervous bird, wings and voice underdeveloped, struggling to hold a conversation. 

“I did, thank you. Last shipment is on its way to Lannisport, but I wanted to spend a few extra days here on holiday. Weather is a bit stormier at Casterly Rock.”

Her charisma faltered, but her interest in his work amplified. “What is your project? If you don’t mind me asking?”

Mr. Lannister, Jaime, gave a half smile and lifted his chin higher. “There’s a waterfall a couple dozen miles upstream from my estate. I bought that property and mined a cavern in the ground beneath the waterfall. I’m building a hydro-power house.”

Brienne’s mouth opened like a fool. Her quicker feet stepped closer to walk in line with Jaime as they approached the bridge. “A water power house?” 

His deep voice blossomed into laughter. He may have found her amusing, but the quickened pulse of her heart ignored the possibility of him mocking her. Jaime nodded and rubbed his chin with his right hand.

“All by yourself?”

“No,” he said and he held his smile back. He intensified his features into a serious, scornful frown, “I hire.” His expression relaxed and he peered over towards the bridge again. “You can’t build something so important by yourself. I have a team of thirty men or so. I know enough, and a few of the workers are self-trained electricians.”

Captivated, Brienne squeezed her hands together. She wanted to learn every possible detail about his project. “The power, is it for your estate?”

“Partially. Not nearly enough people to make it worthwhile. The power is really for Lannisport. Most people still use kerosene or candles. A fire burned a fourth of the town last year. It’s time we change that. Since the fire, people are listening.”

She misjudged him. Brienne softened her grip on her own fingers. Her mind raced to understand his design, even if she never saw plans on paper. “Turbines?”

“Yes, four hydro-turbines, all state of the art. Four generators—” he paused when he looked at her. His eyes narrowed and his open mouth curled into a small smirk. “You have an inspired look about you.” 

“I’ve been dreaming of employment or a project. Stuck inside all day, I do nothing but draw plans. I’m envious. To bring power to a whole city…”

“I’m close,” he said. “Keep an eye out for me in the paper in a few months and see if I’ve done it. No one’s ever built anything like this before.”

“I will,” Brienne said, her smile warm and genuine. They reached the best viewpoint for the bridge, and they both stopped to admire its magnificence. Her forearms rested on the warmed metal handrail and she daydreamed. 

Workers would build a temporary dam to allow space to work in this river, and she would find a way to put wheels under the river to allow mechanical energy to turn into electrical energy. With enough transformers and wires, she could send the power of light and energy to almost anyone at the fraction of the cost and safer compared to alternatives.

“Miss Tarth,” Jaime said, his voice a bit deeper. “Are you attending the ball on Monday? I would enjoy seeing your work.”

Her mind stumbled. He glimpsed over at her, and she looked away. “I’m in mourning. I cannot attend.”

He said nothing. Silence barred its way between them and they both stared at the bridge and river. The cost of scandal outweighed her will to disobey. Olenna, Loras and Renly arrived beside them. One look towards Olenna and the old woman cleared her throat. “I believe we must return to our dreary electric cars, Mr. Lannister,” Olenna said. “This was a wonderful walk, full of bugs and insects. Farewell until Monday.”

Jaime’s hand rested on the handrail and he faced everyone. He first looked at Brienne, then Olenna. “Thank you for joining me. Farewell.” He gave a slight bow, and behind him, a monarch butterfly fluttered in the wind.

A paleness stole Brienne’s face. She stared, frozen in time as the butterfly flew in circles behind Jaime. He straightened his posture with a smile, but her lingering gaze made him frown.

“Dear,” Olenna whispered.

Brienne lifted her hands off of the handrail as if it burned. Her dry mouth managed to say, “Farewell, Mr. Lannister.” She whirled around and hesitated her steps away from him, tempted to glance back. Obligated, she walked away with her original visitors.

They remained quiet and Olenna and Loras walked ahead of Renly and Brienne. Unable to hold himself back, Renly peered behind them, and once satisfied, he leaned closer to Brienne and whispered, “He’s courting you.”

“He’s not courting me.” The thought might have left her in fits of laughter, but the mockery of the idea left her in scowls instead.

“Why would he not? You’re young, intelligent and wealthy.”

Brienne glared at him. She mistook friendliness for courtship before... “That is precisely the problem.” Brienne did not know the difference, and creatures desired her fortune.

“He’s more than easy on the eye—”

“Which, if true, makes this all the more perplexing.”

Renly climbed the ledge and reached out his hand. Brienne accepted it, helpless and lost in the thought of Jaime’s hand instead. Her mind latched onto this man because she lived in solitude, not for any other reason. Renly released Brienne’s hand once she ascended the ledge and said, “At one point or another, you won’t have mourning to hold you back. Sooner the better if you ask me. This whole thing is foolish.”

“You know I don’t want to be wearing this.”

“Choose not to. You’re the upcoming star of King’s Landing. You battled dozens of men at university, this is no different. If you’re so worried about gossip, move away. You have money. Lannisport is very nice—” 

“Loras said he’s grieving.” Brienne stopped Renly’s smile in an instant.

“All the more reason to marry. He’s lonely, like you.” The group of them walked past a few headstones, centuries old. “It’s sad, I know... I met her. A perfect couple. I don’t think he’s trying to replace her with you—”

“Because why?” Brienne laughed. “She was the most beautiful thing you’ve seen?”

By the hesitation in Renly’s face, she knew she guessed right. Brienne found his idea more preposterous by the second. 

Renly continued, “She passed away a year ago. He has money, an entire estate—and a waterfall. Loras said he saw you two talking in the office, perhaps he wants something different. I think he’s—”

“Listen to yourself.” Brienne became raw. Thorns pricked and poked her throughout her entire life, and entertaining such an idea made her legs into brittle bone. “He’s done nothing but argue with me. You make it sound like he’s already proposed marriage.”

“You’re like Alayne Beesbury! You can propose.”

Nearby, adults sat by their loved ones’ graves while children hopped around headstones. Brienne whispered as they walked, “I have never wanted to marry for children or wealth or security. Marriage has never been a requirement in my life. Would you marry someone you did not love?”

Renly frowned and said, “You know me. I would, given the right circumstances.”

“I see, and what are those circumstances?” 

“My situation—our situation is far different from yours.” His hushed whispers grew a shade louder. He asked, “What do you want in a husband? Perfection?”

Noxious gasoline and sewer scents passed over them. They walked closer to the city streets. If not marriage for children, wealth or security, what other requirements did she desire? Jaime Lannister did not intend to marry her. Her grief played tricks on her. Brienne climbed into the electric taxi-car, a modern-like carriage, and sat next to Olenna. 

Olenna let out a sigh and said, “Gods, the efforts I go through to be a chaperone. You are worth it, if I say so myself. Lannisport is remarkably far but beautiful.” Her patented closed lips smiled.

Brienne gazed out the window, her hands tangled in the fabric of her skirt. The car drove slowly, and it allowed her to admire an army of daffodils outside the graveyard.


	3. Chapter 3

Moonlight settled on the cobblestoned streets and its light overflowed like a river. A full moon never disappointed, but Brienne found it difficult to swallow her frustrated emotions. Isolated since her picnic, she spent her days amidst her daydreams and her sketches. Tonight, the Monday evening of Lady Olenna’s ball, her thoughts refused to unclench its claws from the idea of the Highgarden Hall’s illumination. She wondered if her hard work succeeded; she wondered if people gasped in awe or if no one mumbled a word about the power of electricity.

“Are you ready for your nightgown, miss?” Mrs. Dalla, Brienne’s housekeeper, stood at the doorway with a posture straighter than railway steel. 

Brienne nodded. “I’ve been thinking about color for tomorrow...” She leaned forward in her chair with a joking smile.

Mrs. Dalla walked forward and smirked. “Black is on the menu again, unless you want to add spice.” Her mature voice giggled as she opened Brienne’s wardrobe. Short, plump and old enough to be Brienne’s mother, she rambled quite differently from the quiet woman Brienne met as a child. Mrs. Dalla worked with smiles, even after she became a widow a decade ago. 

Brienne stood from her wooden desk and stepped past her bed. Beyond mountains of bookcases filled with books, she navigated to the wardrobe. Green wallpaper gave the room a sea-like calm.

While she appreciated alone time to live in her own thoughts, many weeks of few social interactions carved their bitter mark on Brienne’s spirit. She looked forward to time with Mrs. Dalla more so, so long as she was not busy. They discussed fashion as they took off Brienne’s mourning dress. Mrs. Dalla’s fingers lingered through the lace and luxurious fabrics, one of her highest passions.

Underneath her unwanted macabre mourning dress, Brienne wore white petticoat, corset, covers, stockings and chemise. As Mrs. Dalla hung the mourning dress in the wardrobe her hand held back the cream ballroom dress Brienne’s father purchased. Mrs. Dalla’s keen eye discovered her at once and asked, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Its train barely fits inside.” She chuckled, but stopped when Brienne remained quiet.

“Would you…” Mrs. Dalla paused, “like to try it on? No one’s here.” 

Brienne hesitated like a diver on the brink of a cliff. Her tongue trembled, and Mrs. Dalla’s encouraged smile softened.

“Yes,” Brienne whispered.

Wrinkles exaggerated around Mrs. Dalla’s pressed lips. She lifted herself onto her toes. Schoolgirl squeals erupted from her as she carried the ball gown out into the open air.

Brienne imagined her father’s reaction to seeing the dress in the store for the first time. Perhaps he customized the fit for her; as nothing naturally came in her exact size. Maybe he selected this dress at first sight, or maybe he fussed over a dozen options. Mrs. Dalla said people loved cream as a popular color, but its lack of pigment tended to bore the eye. A bored pair of eyes would focus on other distinctive features instead: a woman’s bust, face or other details on her dress. Brienne’s face and height demanded attention, thus, she gave a mouse’s smile when she realized her father meant to polish her rather than cover her with color or distraction. An exceptional train flowed onto the floor along with a long bodice softly draped in silk. No excessive lacing, flowers or details diverted focus. The dress understated its sophistication. Air brushed past the middle of the back, where the dress scooped and a long line of black fabric trailed her back and behind her legs. A couple centimeters of lace outlined her bust, intended to trick the eye into thinking she carried a heavier chest. Strands of pearls decorated underneath the lace in addition to pearls draped in two loops across her upper arms. Small strands strapped across her shoulders, making the dress sleeveless and almost strapless. 

“A turn of the century dress for a turn of the century woman,” Mrs. Dalla said as she fastened the dress on Brienne’s body.

Sad, youthful tears welled at the back of Brienne’s eyes. Her father chose a modern dress for her. He would have loved to see her wear it, and he would have loved more to see her smile. 

“Here is the cloak,” Mrs. Dalla said, and draped the matching cream pleated cloak around her shoulders. Brienne felt like ancient royalty. “Before the looking glass,” Mrs. Dalla said, “allow me to swirl your hair.”

Brienne seated herself while she quieted in her thoughts. She did not need to look at herself in the looking glass to feel beautiful in this moment. Pearls glistened and the bodice breathed with her, as if this dress belonged on her and only her.

Nimble fingers from Mrs. Dalla quickly adjusted Brienne’s hair into swirls. She leaned over Brienne’s shoulder and opened her palm to reveal a rhinestone hairpin. Inside, Brienne’s father’s hair braided into a small keepsake. Brienne nodded and Mrs. Dalla placed the hairpin into Brienne’s swirls.

Her dancing shoes, heels intentionally cut short to limit her height, slipped on with ease. Conflicting emotions tormented her while she stood and stared at the looking glass. She wanted to slouch and cry at the idea of not wearing this dress for her father. She also wanted to stand straighter and pretend he watched her from across the room.

As if a ghost spoke for him, Mrs. Dalla asked, “What would Mr. Tarth say?”

Through shivers, Brienne stared at her own blue eyes and freckles. A quick smile fluttered before she admitted, “He would tell me to go.” Her words sounded absurd, but she needed to say them aloud. She needed to give him a voice.

“Shall I… call for a ride?” 

Would she? Brienne glanced over to Mrs. Dalla, her smile soft and warm. If Brienne attended the ball, she risked gossip. She knew Olenna would speak highly of her, and the reward of seeing her own electrical work gave her goosebumps. Without dancing, Brienne might avoid whispers if she intended to see her work and progress. If she wanted to dance, she saw it as no sin. Her father wanted her to prepare for a society of courtship. What would he say at her hesitation? Brienne inhaled a breath as deeply as her corset allowed. His voice would give her a choice.

Brienne nodded.

Mrs. Dalla smirked and dashed across the room to call for a ride.

The ride to Highgarden Hall was dark compared to her home: a luxurious, yet smaller home in the center of King’s Landing. With the sun of the night, the moon rode with Brienne through mudded streets. As the carriage approached Olenna’s estate, she peered out to a night ravished in a warm glow. Lights brightened the world before her, including the iron gates. Moths fluttered around them. Brienne beamed and gripped the handle of the door, tempted to beg the driver to stop and allow her to run through the gate and over the lawn. She rolled her head back and forth in an attempt to calm her nerves. As soon as the carriage stopped, she threw the door open and hopped onto stone.

Alone and smiling, Brienne marched down the walkway. Lamps and bulbs laced along the path and illuminated bushes and archways. Several people, dressed their best, surrounded the brightened fountains in front of the Lady Olenna’s three story home. 

“It’s like looking into the heavens!” one person said.

“A true novelty,” said another.

Brienne walked faster. She wanted to see the lamps inside, the chandeliers, the effect of electricity on a ballroom with a hundred people compared to her memory of dull, lit candles. Long gone were the days of hot wax, smoke and flammable oil.

A butler welcomed Brienne at the top of the steps. Luck remained on her side, as no one appeared to have recognized her. She followed him towards the ballroom, despite her already knowing where to walk. Her eyes glittered underneath the warm light of elegant sconces with hidden bulbs, not candles. The butler offered to take her cloak, and Brienne agreed with a smile. 

She stepped into the ballroom. The warm and fragrant mass of gentlemen, ladies and dancers failed to interest her. Her eyes floated towards the high ceilings adorned with plaster ornaments, white chamfers and ornate details. Six chandeliers, all larger than herself, shined and sparkled with the power of warm electricity. Not a bulb or wire misbehaved. Her first large project: a success.

“Brienne!” Loras swirled around her, his eyes wide and mouth open in shock. “You’re here! Grandmother just announced your part in this splendor.” Beside them, a few people looked over their shoulders at him and her. Both tall, they stuck out like a weed and a blooming rose.

She thought she would have appreciated recognition, but in such a moment, the idea made her legs into weak glass. Brienne took a step back, still smiling. Loras stepped with her and gazed around the room. “You aren’t dancing,” Brienne whispered, loud enough for him to hear over the music: a group of strings and grand piano. “You love dancing.”

“I do love dancing, but not with any woman. Only you. Will you dance with me for the next dance?”

“Oh, I didn’t come here to dance.”

The polka dance ended, and the two of them clapped gently alongside the crowd as couples spread away from the dance floor. Across the ballroom, next to Olenna and a sea of beautiful women, framed by an enormous painting, one man burned brighter than the rest: Jaime. He dressed in a luster and black dance coat, and he belonged in the priceless painting behind him. His face, unaware of her presence, arrested her more than before. Waves of blond hair combed behind his ears. Women laughed alongside him. One of them touched the back of his arm. He stepped closer to the woman he spoke with, his swallow-tail ends of his coat hanging behind his thighs. No sense of mourning followed him; his collar notched and bow tie matched the same cream of her dress. Beside Brienne, Loras wore a similar outfit, but she failed to notice it. 

“You’re absolutely drooling,” Loras teased.

Over the crowd, Jaime’s sharp features turned and gazed over at them both. By the time Brienne snapped her shoulders away from his viewpoint, Loras’s smirk grew. 

“He’s coming over,” Loras said. His teeth dragged across his lip. 

Brienne would not let herself drool. In fact, due to her last blundered conversation about mourning fresh in her mind, she wanted to avoid Jaime. He had asked if she would attend, and here she was: a liar. Her stomach gnarled itself into a cord of tree roots. The closer he walked, the tighter her knot twisted.

He stood before her, almost eye level. She held her arms behind her back and awaited his unpredictable nature. 

“Good evening, Miss Tarth,” Jaime said. “I’m delighted to see you.” His hands tucked behind his back like a proper gentleman.

“Good evening.” Brienne forced a modest smile and glanced at him once, his effect far too strong for a look longer than a few short seconds.

Loras’s attention danced between them both. He chimed in, “Brienne is responsible for all of this lighting.”

“Yes,” Jaime said, “I’ve tried my best to observe the hidden magic of it all, but it appears you’ve done a good job of hiding almost every wire. I’ve spent my time boring Lady Olenna with talks about it. Truly amazing work.”

“Thank you,” Brienne said, shy as a wild animal. She did not feel like herself. Whispers of her name murmured around them compounded her fears. People recognized her.

“We can go to the drawing room,” Loras whispered in Brienne’s ear. Her knight and oldest friend meant to rescue her, and Brienne smiled. Eyes towards the three of them intensified. The bevy of women Jaime spoke with earlier floated their way across the room and stood like bait for Jaime’s hand at dancing.

Loras said, “Would you like help finding a dance partner, Mr. Lannister?”

Jaime’s hand, ungloved and open, reached out for Brienne. His chin tucked lower and his green eyes corrupted in a certain way, as if he knew the scandal of dancing with her—with all her faults. “Would you be mine?” he asked, but his smile and voice were gentle. 

She swallowed and stared at his hand. Having denied his hand twice, she knew her denial wounded him. “I don’t—thank you,” she whispered, “But I’m sure someone else would be delighted.” 

“I daresay, but I have asked you,” he whispered, deep and insistent.

He spun a web around her because his charm and insistence trapped her into a speechless stupor. The unknown grief in him, and in her, deserved to be shut out, if only for a moment. Her dancing skills had likely turned to rust, but she already traveled so far through the jungle of people. Declining him would prevent the pleasure of one harmless dance. Brienne ignored the whispers, and she stretched her hand out to accept his. Once she stepped forward, his smile deepened.

People thrummed as they moved aside for Jaime and Brienne. Through distant, brittle laughter from people around them, he said to her, “I prefer the waltz over polka.”

Brienne placed her feet in front of his and faced him. Their fingertips, soft and shy, soon embraced into a proper hold. Their hands kissed, she imagined. She contemplated a pout at the thought of his interest, now laughable. If he displayed more flaws, at least physical ones, she would believe Renly’s claim. A nearby woman gasped, likely at the realization he picked Brienne, a woman who refused to be locked in by mourning... as good as litter on the sidewalk. A quick glance around revealed several eyes on them both. She stole away their confection: a rich man from Lannisport. No one wanted her here.

“Cream is a much better color for you,” Jaime said. She snapped her gaze back to him. The music began and his spare hand scooped behind her and onto her back—warm skin on hers. His touch tempted her to lean forward and away, but it would only force her closer to him.

She became mute, and by mere miracle, she remembered to lay her other hand on his shoulder. Did he mean to mock her or empower her? As the waltz began and their feet moved, he did not snicker, look away or share jokes with others. He watched her. She braved the weight of his gaze: strong and protective. 

His hands possessed a quality in them, their rough exterior covered a velvet-like layer underneath, warming her more than hot tea. The room emptied in her mind, and a jolt transversed through her. Their eyes locked as they waltzed around and between other couples. He smirked. Opposing death, she became alive as she danced with him, and the edge of her lips tugged into a subtle breathless smile. Her heart sang more than the stringed instruments and ivory keys of the piano.

Jaime’s eyes lowered and he closed his eyes. His breath tensed, either from their dancing or his gander at any one of her unfortunate features. She knew the look of scorn and disgust, and no amount of powder could cover her freckles, jagged nose or large teeth. It became obvious to her she would never dance with him again. The thought stabbed her, and she cursed herself for forming any sense of infatuation with this man. When the song ended, his eyes opened and returned to hers. Claps and whispers returned as well, and Brienne assessed her mistake. This man detested her, and she felt a fool for entertaining the idea for five fleeting seconds.

Brienne released his hand and shoulder. “If you will excuse me,” she said, and she slipped out from his loose hold of her back. She diverted against the flow of people to guarantee a faster path to escape the ballroom.

“That was Mr. Jaime Lannister, the wealthy man from Lannisport with an empty house. With _her_ ,” a young woman said, loud and careless enough for Brienne to hear. “Is she not in mourning?”

Gods, she was a fool. Her horrible self-conclusion continued after she slipped upstairs and away from all people. Every ascending step ached in heartbreak. Her single mistake of propriety washed away her dream to serve power to the rest of King’s Landing. No one would employ her and no one would work with a scandalous woman. She should have never come. As she stretched her hand for the drawing room door, rich laughs from inside the room gave her pause.

Brienne gently plucked the door open, enough for her eye to peep through the crack. To her relief, she found Renly and Loras standing in front of each other in the middle of the room. Instead of pulling the door open, she froze. Renly reached for Loras, in a fit of sinful giggles. Their hands intertwined and their bodies attracted one another, colliding closer than magnets. Brienne watched as they stepped front and back into slow and deliberate tango dance. Their chins barely touched and one suited hand blurred into another, indistinguishable. 

Brienne closed the door gently. Her friends harmed no one, and here, they needed to keep their love a secret. She walked away from their laughs.

Careful steps down the stairs, she looked over her shoulders like a criminal towards the drawing room. The door remained closed.

Below her, midway down the stairs, someone asked, “Why did you run away?”

Brienne startled and grabbed the wooden stair rail beside her. Her nails clenched into the wood to the point of pain. Jaime stepped up with perplexed eyes. Softer, he said, “Are you worried they think of you as a cow? Surely, you don’t care what they say.”

The fright lingered, and her blood demanded flight. Brienne brushed past him and towards the butler for her cloak. 

“Do not listen to them,” Jaime said while he followed her, a meter or so behind. “Half of these people would love to see you throw me over your shoulder like a sack of flour. I pay them no mind.”

After the butler placed Brienne’s cloak over her shoulders, she tied the strings herself. Jaime waited, either for her to ask why people disliked him or for her to accept his help with her cloak. She wanted neither. A different variable to her problem, he required a different solution, and she lacked the energy to calculate. Compared to her foolish flash in society, he was a different equation altogether. Brienne thanked the butler, bowed a poor curtsy and walked outside.

Jaime followed. “Do my words offend you?” Tall enough to match her stride, he marched towards the gates with her. 

She ignored him and tried her best to listen to the cricket’s murmurs in the grass; she welcomed any sound to drown out the mockery laughter in her mind. Jaime asked again, “Do any words whispered or behind your back offend you?”

“Those words have power,” Brienne said. No amount of womanly sweetness could eliminate her bitter tone. She wanted to walk faster—run, if need be. She could not outrun spoken words, and it would not solve her problem.

After a deep exhale, he said, “Ignore them and they lose their power.”

“You don’t understand.” 

“I do—” he said, “Miss Tarth, I would much rather have a conversation inside.”

“I don’t care what you do with your night.”

“Can you tell me if I’ve done something wrong? I’m beginning to think you’ve charged me guilty—with what, I’m not sure.”

Brienne whirled around and shook her head. In its entirety, this evening boiled her over. Like a child who played with fire, she suffered her consequence. Trimmed shrubs and her lungs breathed air saturated with moisture from the sea, but the warm glow of electricity did not ease her. These lit grounds haunted her more than inspired her. “I am guilty myself. You bear no responsibility, it is my own.”

“I fear you are far too advanced for me to follow. What crime did you commit?” Jaime’s hands rested near his hips and his jaw clenched.

“By choosing to come here, those words will take everything I want away from me. You do not understand this.” 

“And what about where I’m from? You think no one gossips about me in Lannisport? I have an entire company slandering my name, the sept wants to control my every decision. Look around you. You already have what almost every soul wants. Youth. Education. Wealth—”

“No.”

“What is it?” 

He almost said “beauty,” she could hear the word in his voice.

He asked, “Love?”

Brienne’s lips parted and she looked at him with a pained wonder. “I do not need love,” she said while shaking her head. 

His brow arched and he stared in silence.

She proceeded towards the street. Freckles of rust sprinkled on the front iron gates. He continued to follow her. Why did her concerns matter to his man? She already declared his innocence.

“Property?” He asked, a dogged hound. “Buy it. With enough coin, people will do anything. Power?”

“That’s exactly it. Power.” Brienne stopped and pointed at the nearest light. “I want to spread power around for everyone. Everyone has a right to power, for light and transportation and an infinite amount of other uses. You understand this more than most, I hope. But you do not understand how different our situations truly are. I can’t use my education because I can’t find employment. Before you say I can create my own company, the result is the same. Men and women alike will turn away and refuse to work with me because I am a woman without appropriateness. What is the point of my education and voice if no one will listen to it?”

Again, he looked away. 

Brienne reached the gates and peered around. A small line of people waited for the next available carriage and the thought of subjecting herself to more ridicule made her rather faint. She could walk, but mud would ruin her dress.

“Allow me to drive you home,” Jaime said. Her pride struggled to refuse. Thoughts of ruining her father’s last gift made her faintly nod.

Horrible gasoline swirled around them once he cranked the engine on and seated in his car. Loud noises rumbled in front of her, and Brienne waited for Jaime to signal her to climb into the car. His gesture, an outstretched hand, was an easy one to decline. She helped herself inside, seated tens of centimeters apart from him. Her hand held onto the edge of the car as he drove the vehicle forward.

“I find myself happier when I do not listen to rumors or gossip,” he said, loud enough to hear over the engine.

“You are not required to listen.”

He laughed. “Your youth makes you so presumptive. Lannister blood and skin is thicker than most.”

His philosophies differed from hers, unlike their shared ambitions. “We are all made the same inside.”

He quieted and followed her directions well and quietly. She worried the car might wake sleeping neighbors. When they turned a corner through a lake of mud in the street, a book slid across the floor underneath her feet. She reached lower to save the book from sure death, as the sides of Jaime’s car were open without secured doors. Upon examination in her lap, the worn cover sank into her palms with its weight. She held a book of poems.

“Borrow it, if you like,” he said. His car wheels jostled on now cobblestone streets.

“Right here,” she said. He followed her eyes, nodded and pulled the car in front of her home. He shifted the car into a lower gear, and although quieter, surely every neighbor heard this large, monstrous machine in front of her home. Her face heated. She looked for the book’s home, but found none. “Thank you, but—” 

“Read it or not, I leave for Lannisport tomorrow. Or keep it longer.” 

Brienne squinted. They shared a gaze, but her eyes analyzed no meaning behind his words. Perhaps the night, lit by the lonesome moon, fooled her into thinking he gifted her his possession.

“I know of a position for you in Lannisport,” he said. “One where you can put your electrical engineering to work. No one will know your name. No one will mind you’ve metamorphosed out of your mourning clothes a few weeks too soon. You can grieve like the rest of us, in our own minds and far longer than any human body can survive. Grief is never ending and all surrounding.”

Their conversation reached a dark corner, beyond the dull hum of the car’s engine. He spoke the truth. Grief could not be set to a timeline. Brienne squeezed the hardcover of the book in her hands. The idea of a work position gave her a light of hope. “What does it pay?”

“Nothing for a while, I’m afraid.”

Brienne wanted to laugh, but a weak gasp escaped in its place. “Offering a woman a coinless position is a very generous offer indeed.” She reached down to grab her dress train in order to exit the car.

“I’m asking you to be my wife.”

Her hand petrified mid-grab, and fabric slipped through her fingers. The end of the dress settled where gravity saw fit. Gravity’s force grabbed hold of her heart as well, for surely, he mocked her. She struggled to consider the mere possibility he meant what he said. Brienne braved a glimpse towards him, and he possessed the same intense look during their dance. He meant it. She rarely imagined such a sudden proposal, but this sounded unlike stories she heard from Renly and Loras. The man knelt to the woman, she thought. Proposals did not happen in cars, not like this.

He swallowed and leaned a hair closer. “Forgive me, I am not the romantic, wealthy bachelor in those fanciful books. I’m rash and not nearly as wealthy as I appear. I will spend every last coin I own to bring my power house to life.”

Her pinched heart opened its eyes. ”You want me for my wealth.”

“I want you in your entirety. Your wealth is a part of you. Your desires and my desires are one and the same: to bring power to people. Once this power house succeeds, we recover our investment with exponential interest. I ask for nothing but partnership and help.”

Like her, he required no love. He did not say he loved her, nor did she love him. Perhaps he preferred men, like Renly or Loras. Or he preferred her as a possession.

“Well, will you marry me?” His voice, a stroke faster, demanded her answer. The edge of his foot tapped near the gas pedal.

His reason and his tone seared into her, thus she hoisted her dress train and exited the car. Gaucheries be damned. Consciousness allowed her to turn around and face Jaime, who sat in his car and glared at her. Despite his patience, or lack thereof, his expression knew her answer. Brienne unclenched her jaw and said, “You choose to marry again so soon?”

He frowned, wrinkles so deep between his brows they created mountains. “How do you know?”

“How do you find it not important to tell me you were married?” The absurdity of the situation made her scowl. The idea he wanted to keep his previous marriage hidden or a secret stung her. 

Jaime released his frown and closed his eyes. “What does it matter? I thought you preferred the future over the past.” He opened his eyes into an impatient stare. “What is your damned answer?”

With her glare, she said, “I am not a prized cattle and... you are no knight.”

He shadowed, and through the night filled with noxious gas fumes, his eyes smoldered red. Her words barbed him well enough, and his handsome face twisted into a tense scowl, still agreeable. Once fisted, his hand grabbed the gear lever with a roughness he failed to hide. Louder rumbles boiled within his car’s engine and wheels dragged the car forward in a reluctant drift. A gulf formed between them both. 

With a raised voice and full of spite, he said, “You’re certainly as stubborn as a cow. Good evening, Miss Tarth.”

Brienne fumed as he rolled away, tempted to throw his book at him. The book was not at fault, so she loosened her constriction and stormed to her front door. Mrs. Dalla burst into the entrance hall and demanded every detail. Brienne obliged, describing how a traveling man tricked her into dancing and a ride home, tone harsher and more hurried than Jaime’s. Mrs. Dalla briefly smiled, and it was then Brienne realized she complained about Jaime and not the expected onslaught of gossip. Instead of rambling further, she asked for privacy and secluded herself to her room, much like her first years as a woman, when she started to wear corsets. She slammed her door closed.

She set the book on her desk and undressed, her shoulders now sweating underneath her cloak. Her bewildered heart ran around through her frantic chest with a blindfold covering its eyes. Ears and echoes in her mind recited his words and reaction. He did not laugh or wipe his brow with relief at her denial. Instead he grew cross—all the more evidence he genuinely proposed to her. To Brienne, he was no different than Hyle or any other man seeking out her fortune. They all copied one another. After twisting out of her dress, she tugged the knot free on her corset and unfastened the busk in the front. Her fingers trembled at the attempt to hang her ballgown.

Swirls pulled, her straw-like hair fell free. Her soft hand picked out the hairpin. Her evening routine... already ruined. Tired muscles begged for sleep, but her mind pulled the loose thread of consequences as she lay awake in her bed. The bright moonlight tapped on the window, and she ignored it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Works referenced in this chapter: “Goblin Market” by Christina Rossetti (1862)

Solitude disagreed with her. When she woke with a thin layer of sweat covering her skin, she opened the window above her desk to let in the chilled morning air. Humidity rushed in with wind, and one of her alternating current circuit sketches blew onto the unknown book. Pinning the sketch paper against the book with her thumb, she glared and feared Jaime’s presence might haunt her. She preferred loneliness to the likes of him.

Gentle fingers pulled the sketch away. Rough patches and tinted pages from the book stared back at her. Her foolish thoughts, comparable to a childish quarrel, paused into a sudden weakness, and she opened the book to its only dog eared page. 

_Golden head by golden head,  
Like two pigeons in one nest  
Folded in each other’s wings,  
They lay down in their curtain’d bed:  
Like two blossoms on one stem,  
Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow,  
Like two wands of ivory  
Tipp’d with gold for awful kings.  
Moon and stars gaz’d in at them,  
Wind sang to them lullaby,  
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,  
Not a bat flapp’d to and fro  
Round their rest:  
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast  
Lock’d together in one nest._

Brienne snapped the book closed, her hand lingering on the cover. Reading this passage meant she peered into another soul’s romance, and she wanted no part in it. This appeared too romantic for Jaime, who, with her limited experience, possessed less romance than a rock. He showed his bluntness far more than any form of affection. Despite her refusal, his question continued to pester her.

Unlike her classmates and professors, he treated her without mockery. Nothing was as cruel as cold laughter, and throughout his entire courtship, if one could call it that, he smiled—and when he did, he warmed her. She contemplated the possibility of marriage with him; she considered what their lives would look like. He would be another pair of eyes to peer over her work, another world of conversation. A ring and title as a wife would protect her from men like Hyle and ridicule like the kind she received at university. Above all, his name, hand and position would support her dream of engineering.

For distraction, she flipped to the title page. He gave her the impression he wanted the book returned to him, however, she guessed it belonged to someone else. Written in a slanted hand, strong and confident, she read a handwritten note, “To Jaime—Love, Your Wife. June 1st 1891.”

He had been married eight years, at least, to a woman he loved. He must have married directly after university. Renly said he adored her. Brienne knew scant details about the mysterious Jaime Lannister. She knew more of his power house than his family history or financial troubles. Perhaps he had reason to be so curt and impolite. His wife, a love of several years, passed in a way that left him grieving forever. His odd behavior might have been guilt—or regret. Maybe she died of disease, an accident or, gods forbid, in childbirth.

Mrs. Dalla knocked on the door, and Brienne straightened her posture. Her housekeeper delivered the paper and a letter alongside toast and marmalade with hesitation. She said nothing. Mrs. Dalla left the room to do housework. Fiends of gossip infiltrated into her home through the paper. Brienne lived among the imagined whispers of others. A beautiful sketch of Highgarden Hall plastered on the front page. Within the first paragraph, the article mentioned Brienne’s name, her presence at the party and her dance with a wealthy gentleman. The article remained fairly unbiased until she read quotes from the public.

Quoting Merritt Frey, he said, “Whatever little charms are left in young women seem to be wasted on education.” 

Bessa, without a last name, said, “Tarth is too rich to become a housewife.”

The paper quoted another person saying, “I do not want or care for women working because it means competition with men rather than cooperation.”

She flipped through the paper in haste. The paper failed to credit Brienne for the wiring of the estate. She stood. Her fingers tightened against the fragile paper, twisting it into crinkled wreckage. She swallowed, paused and turned to the back page. A macabre cartoon illustration displayed hundreds of electrical wires spreading through the cartoon like tendrils. Below them, men and horses lay perished in the street. Illustrations so venomous against electricity dashed her dream to pieces because so many people thought electricity was evil. 

Brienne reached for the letter on the silver tray. Her heart sank when she read the first line.

“Miss Brienne Tarth,—  
We regret to inform you that we have denied your application for employment at Westerosi Steel Co. We invite you to apply to our secretarial positions once you have concluded your mourning.

Yours respectfully,  
Robert Tarly.”

The idea of waiting months and Robert Tarly’s implication made her teeth grind. She saw nothing wrong with the position of secretary except that she was overqualified. Learning the typewriter and listening to men bored her. Her hands preferred grime, paper and wires to bend and shape to her liking—and she found herself more capable than any other man. Her patience, thinner than dielectric glass, threatened to shatter. 

“Mrs. Dalla,” Brienne called out. She struck the paper against her desk and let it go. How many people had read the paper? How many people gossiped?

After fifteen minutes of internal curses and profanities, Brienne escaped her home and entered summer air, seeking to return Jaime’s possession—she was no thief—on her way to see the Tyrells and Renly. Her dress smelled of her sweat, as no cotton chemise saved her singular dress from the spell of heat. She clutched the foreign book against her lower rib and under her breast.

With quick steps, she planned to reach Rosby Hotel within fifteen minutes. A hotelkeeper or someone responsible would return the book and she would avoid a single look towards the book’s owner.

Once Brienne walked around a corner, she nearly smashed into a group of clergymen, dressed like crows. Hyle stood among them and held out his hands in an attempt to stabilize Brienne when she recoiled backwards. Hyle’s hands snatched her clothed forearms, both wound tightly around the book to her chest.

“Miss Tarth!”

Brienne’s heart flailed its wings around in her chest like a caged bird, and freedom was a few steps to the right and forward. She wanted to ignore the three of them and walk freely ahead but the threat of more gossip halted her. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, a bit breathless.

All three pairs of eyes looked at her as if she had two heads.

Hyle returned his hands to his side and said, “I hear you are quite the dancer, Miss Tarth. I did not share the satisfaction of witnessing such a miracle. Although, I had my doubts it was at Highgarden Hall, as I assumed you danced at a more scandalous business, such as those who employ dancers of the night. I attend those sinful places as often as you attend the sept service.”

She paled. Her mind, once stronger than copper wire, fell apart into weak fragments of threaded metal. Her body, however, straightened and gripped the book harder.

“Miss, where is your chaperone?” Hyle asked. He acted as if he were richer and taller than her.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled, and escaped to the right. Their scoffing faces, punches to her stomach, winced at her while she walked away.

The city’s clock struck bells at the hour, and Brienne walked faster. When she arrived at the Rosby Hotel, she brushed past people outside preoccupied with their conversations and pipes. Faint tobacco smoke followed her into the stuffy hotel lobby. A fog-like haze settled at the bottom of the lobby, hovering in the air. Between the sunlight and the multitude of small bulbs, the lobby glowed rather romantically; gold hues plastered from floor to ceiling. 

People ignored her as she walked to the front desk. A large group sat at white tables near the cafe for brunch. No one gasped at the sight of her. Her strange comfort could slip away with a single breath if she ran into another person she recognized. She could not linger here.

At the front desk, Brienne waited for the man to drop his lornette and acknowledge her. Instead, his mustached sharp face focused on his guest book.

Brienne said, “I...”

The man glanced at her, eyes rising. He blinked rapidly.

“I have a book for Mr. Jaime Lannister—”

“He checked out early this morning, Miss.”

“Is there a…” Her fingernails itched, still clutched onto the book. She wanted to tear at them, but biting would solve nothing. Her conscience demanded to return his book to him, thus, she could find a way to mail a book to Casterly Rock. In defeat, she turned and considered adding a letter of apology as well. She meant to give his book back, not keep it, and she worried he despised her for it.

Her retreat towards the entrance slowed. What would Renly and Loras say about this book? Brienne knew not how to strategize a response. The thought of visiting Highgarden Hall or asking her friends to see her at her home made the hairs stand up at the back of her neck. Surely, any public move promoted more gossip. They would recommend to hide away in her home, but she tortured herself to death with seclusion. She left her home out of passion and fear, and no good would come of her careless decision.

“The book.”

Brienne’s feet halted halfway through the lobby. Through wisps of smoke, Jaime stood off to the side of the lobby, in a small cove of solitude. His black mourning attire returned, and he wore a silk top hat. Brienne became speechless. She walked to him, away from the hustle of people stuffed on lounge chairs. Beams and cherry wood panels gave Jaime’s space an odd quietness. Her hand extended out for him to take his book. When given the choice to act properly, she said, “I apologize for taking it—”

“And I apologize for my harsh words.” He retrieved the hat from his head and accepted his book. 

She waited for their fingertips to touch, a great fear of hers, but they never did. Brienne looked away, unable to face him, though she felt his eyes on her. In truth, her behavior excused nothing. “I must apologize as well. My refusal was not kind.”

“My proposal was poor.”

It was, but so was every other man’s. Brienne swallowed and squeezed her legs tighter together as she stood. Her hands, a mess of nerves, cupped themselves and rested on her lower belly. She wanted to avoid this man, but his apology sounded sincere. Apologies were a pleasing antidote to gossip. Why did he stay? She glanced around them. It was mid-morning, and surely no one spent hours eating breakfast. When her eyes returned to him, his gaze remained.

“You waited here?” she asked.

He smiled and rubbed his chin. Her assessment surprised him into silence, but as his hand dropped, he explained, “In spite of your emphatic refusal, I’ve heard several accounts of your accountability, and I assumed you wouldn’t appropriate my belongings for yourself. I do not place wagers without fair knowledge. Unfortunately for us both, I gambled on your acceptance of my proposal and your potential.”

“You only see my potential and no faults?”

“Faults? Faults I cannot change, such as your decision. No, I want progress, strength and restoration. I fear I do not have time to prove my knightly qualities to you, but I have appreciated your companionship.”

She half expected him to run away and claim he would miss a train, but he drove his own car. His intentions to leave on amicable terms softened her heart. A man like Hyle shamed her for her decisions, and yet, Jaime, of all people, sought to understand her. Brienne examined him, unaware of his hidden or revealed motivations. She could not befriend him if she misunderstood why he rushed into such a poor proposal. 

She asked, “Why marry a woman whom you do not love? Or—”

“Love does not come easily to me,” he said and shook his head. “I cannot promise anyone to provide it. As you know, I have already married, and the thrill of adoration and fanfare are lost on me.”

The subject of his dead wife cast a shadow over him, and his memories stole away the light from his eyes, if only for a moment. Of course, he became cross at the mention of her. Brienne glossed over and stared at the carved paneling on the wall beside them. 

He said, “I understand if you desire—”

“I do not require love,” she said, much as she said the night before. He doubted her. He thought her young, naive and idealistic. Perhaps he thought right, although she never desired anything more than her duty to engineering. Her duty as a woman, to marry and to birth children, sounded more like prison in the wrong hands. “Do you want a home full of children?”

He averted his gaze and laughed. Her exaggeration amused him, and his smile continued when he returned his eyes to her. His smile and eyes braved her scrutinized questions. He said, “At two-and-thirty, the nursery and children’s rooms are empty. I’m sure it will stay that way—” 

“Your family?” Brienne asked. 

“I have almost none. Like you, my parents have passed. I have one sister, my twin, and she wants me to marry.”

Brienne looked at the floor. He was lonely. He had no wife, no children, and limited family. He spent the majority of his money and he used nearly all of his wealth on a revolutionary project. According to him, he appreciated her companionship… and her wealth. Brienne considered herself nontraditional. Then again, the more she learned about him, the more she found _him_ nontraditional.

“Is your wife to be someone at home, writing letters and sewing fabrics throughout the day?” she asked.

He narrowed his vision. “I have housemaids, servants. My wife does as she pleases. If that is writing and sewing, so be it. If she wants to throw stones, I’m obliged to let her, so long as they are not at me.”

“You only need money? You did not ask me how wealthy I—”

“That is because I do not need much and not for very long.” He rubbed his ear—his blond locks tucked behind the fold. “Unless I decide to take on another colossal project such as mine again. Few women find what I do exciting, much less acceptable. I apologize again for presuming our situations mutually beneficial. I hope… we may remain friends. And if you choose to visit the power house, I hope it pleases you.”

He offered a fresh start and a world of new possibilities. If it were not for the weight of the power of gossip, she would have laughed at her sudden reconsideration. She calculated obstacles in her mind, the distance between friends, the new culture and the new estate. All of it sounded sweeter than living in a world where acquaintances joked she worked at a whorehouse. 

Brienne quieted, near trembling. Above a whisper, she said, “I should like to see it.”

“Very well,” he said. His jaw, sharper than most, stiffened for a second. “I believe I must get on with travels—” 

“Wait.” She said, interrupting him again like no proper lady should. 

He stopped and frowned. 

Brienne’s lips found no right words, nothing at all. Her heart and mind raced and battled within herself. What reason did she have to decline him? She denied Hyle for his principles, and Ronnet Connington for his obvious disgust at her. Unless she gave away all of her money, there would never be a man disinterested in her wealth. “These were facts of life,” her father used to say. Her father would consider this a business deal like any other. Strangers declined her right to work until this man arrived. She could not look over the convenience… Jaime had the exact situation she wanted.

Still, he waited.

“I will marry you,” Brienne said. His expression softened and unraveled into a fixed look of amazement. She squared her shoulders. “Only if you agree to my requirements.”

“Requirements?”

They shared no love, no pining—only convenience. “I will not be harmed. I will work, not sit. I will speak my mind, not suppress myself.”

He gave a quiet, tense laugh. “Why harm the woman who makes my dream a reality? You can work as long as you can, as long as you must. Till your fingers and face turn bluer than—”

“You find me not serious?” Brienne scowled.

He looked to the ground while his lips twitched into a thin smile. His head bowed slightly before he said, “I find few things serious. One could say it is one of my requirements: your tolerance of my humor. You’re more serious than the High Septon.”

His bluntness failed to dissuade her. “Following the marriage,” she said, “I will continue to make my own financial decisions with my own wealth.”

Jaime’s smile dropped. His eyes, filled with faint freckles of gold on green, narrowed into a stern glare. Voice deep, he said, “If you do not help me with this project, I’m afraid we do not have an agreement.”

His motivations solidified. He cared far more for the project than marriage, and to that, she agreed with him. As a lonely widower, his heart remained untouchable. These were the right circumstances Renly mentioned before. 

Brienne lifted in spirit and managed a faint smile. “If your project is as ideal as you say it is, I will help you finish it twice as fast.”

He narrowed for a moment and raised his chin, mirroring her smile. “Well then, what are we waiting for?”

Face aflame, she said, “You mean now?”

“Why not now? I already obtained a special licence to speed the process. You want to send out invitations and invite the whole city to a ceremony? I suppose we could wait a few weeks and use your clergyman.”

She never thought of her wedding more than how often her father talked of it. People loved weddings, and the thought of excluding her closest friends made her throat tighten. At the mention of her clergyman, Hyle, her chest suffered from abashed shivers. Diving head first into a partnership in Lannisport sounded softer than staying in King’s Landing. This—her marriage—was the safest way out. 

“Very well,” Brienne said, “now is fine. In this dress?”

“What’s wrong with it? You think the magistrate won’t look at you?” He fumbled his hand into his pocket and pulled an emerald ring out. “Here’s some color.”

She let him plop the ring into her palm, still warm from his possession. More emerald than gold, the ring appeared centuries old. As he returned his hands to his pockets, she slipped the ring onto her left hand. Gold caught on her knuckles, snagging on her skin, but with enough effort, the ring nestled into place. The ring resembled a jade beetle wrapped around her finger.

“Is your measurement right?” Jaime asked.

Brienne snapped her attention to him, parted her lips but said nothing. Despite her large hands, his gift fit well. The band thinned as she examined it closer, and she knew the prior Mrs. Lannister wore this ring—how could she not? Perhaps he had a jeweler stretch the band to accommodate Brienne’s size. If anything, the color made her mourning dress appear more black.

“It’s a family heirloom,” he said. “You find gold not your color?”

“No, I find all metals beautiful—in their own way.” 

“I figured you would. Wait until you see the miles of transmission wires from the powerhouse to Lannisport and Casterly Rock. They start construction in a week and should be done when we arrive.”

“Are you using copper?” Brienne broadened her shoulders and tucked her hands behind her back. They both stared at her hand.

Jaime squinted. “Of course.”

“You should consider aluminum for long distances.”

“Last I checked, copper has more conductivity.”

“It does, but there are many benefits to aluminum.”

“And those are?”

She absently stared at the book in his hand. “It’s lighter and cheaper. You only need to increase the size to make up for the lower conductivity, and even then, it’s still lighter than copper.” When she glanced at him, his intense stare confronted her—she quickly looked away. 

“Let’s discuss this on the boat to Lannisport.”

“Boat?” She frowned, and she looked at him again as his glare lessened.

“Yes, you want to bring your precious electric car, I’m assuming? Unless you’d rather push it along with your bare arms across the country?”

“When do we leave?”

“As soon as we can. I can postpone my ticket for as soon as you're ready. Tonight or tomorrow? Will that be enough time for you to gather your things and say your goodbyes?” 

Brienne viewed the lobby around her. It _was_ possible to escape the mess of her mistakes. All she needed to do was visit a magistrate, her bank, her solicitor and her home.

She expected Mrs. Dalla, through warm tears, would welcome the idea of a marriage and she would help Brienne pack her things. Renly, Loras and Olenna would open a letter, handwritten by Brienne, and congratulate her with showers of whatever gift she requested. Brienne would ask for their companionship to continue in the form of letters, because their supportive voices had the ability to travel thousands of miles. She would never be alone.

It all sounded so simple—the concept of leaving to a world of peaceful engineering. Yet, nothing legally bound her to him or him to her. Brienne cleared her throat and looked at Jaime, who rubbed his ear. He had every right to decline their marriage proposal, and she feared he might discover he made a mistake. 

“Yes,” she said, “Let’s visit the magistrate first.”


	5. Chapter 5

They arrived at Casterly Rock in early autumn, after the full flush of summer. Their ship, carrying their cars, her bicycle, and their trunks full of clothing, arrived at Lannisport following two months of leisurely sailing. Upon arrival to land, the sky wept, and Brienne saw next to nothing through the onslaught of water. 

With his hands gripping the steering wheel of his gasoline car, Jaime insisted they hurry to Casterly Rock as soon as possible, in time for tea. Brienne tried to shield her face from the rain with her hat. She failed. Drops of water trickled down her bird netting, its thin webs useless. A wide umbrella would solve her problem, but heavy winds would pluck it from her grasp like a child tearing petals off a flower. Her soft pink dress, a new bride dress of sorts, had blue and purple violets draped near the front. A large velvet magenta bow pinned the dress to her neck. Her dress looked far more romantic than she felt, for Jaime and Brienne shared a loveless honeymoon at seas. 

Over the course of their travels, they stayed in separate cabins and formed a daily routine of sketching and calculating together or by themselves. Brienne studied his power house figures, prints and calculations, her fingers alive with each turn of a page. She dragged her ring finger along the lines of generators and across wires leading to the transformers. Over miles and miles, this electricity would bring light to a rather dark Lannisport. Brienne caught Jaime’s plain stares towards her more than once while she observed his work. He thought her ugly, she was sure of it. He regretted marrying her, perhaps. Only a fool would marry for money, and now she felt a fool marrying for employment. 

Jaime never mentioned these topics. The man, however, spoke often enough to fill a theater. He talked while he sketched and he talked while they ate, seemingly unaware Brienne remained quiet. Alongside tea, she listened to his rambles about civil engineering and troubles of chiseling a cavern into solid rock. She wondered how one man harnessed such courage. His plans and goals to transmit steamless electricity over such a distance had never been achieved before. The financial implications and high chance of failure affected him little. In fact, he smiled more often the closer they came to Lannisport. He was not a man without faults, because his grins never lasted long. He possessed the same rashness she experienced in King’s Landing, although never rudeness towards her. His brows tensed with temper whenever ill-trained staff inconvenienced him, such as losing his pencil or clearing his work before he finished. He adapted quickly when he returned to work, as if the annoyance never happened.

On the ship, at their shared meals and tea, he offered thin fake smiles whenever anyone mentioned Brienne as a bride or “Mrs. Lannister.” She followed his lead and gave her own grins but feigned every one of them. They were colleagues and partners—nothing more. He never once reached for her hand again and never knocked on her cabin door in the evenings. She considered the possibility her height or appearance shocked him, but after more time with him, she realized nothing scared him. It made more sense to understand him as a grieving and distant person, without and uninterested in love or affection, as he said. Brienne felt similarly, after all.

“I can’t wait to show you Hura Falls,” Jaime said, driving his car out of Lannisport’s gates. Brienne glanced over to see his slight smile. Soldier pines came into view, and blue skies formed above their heads. She forced a smile. Afternoon sun glistened on the dash of the car, but there was no time to see Hura Falls. 

Per usual, Jaime continued talking without her response. “Casterly Rock needs work, remember.”

Brienne nodded. 

“You see the water?” He asked. 

Brienne strained her eyes to gaze miles ahead. 

Jaime changed the gear of the car due to the natural slope of the hill. “Hidden in those trees is Casterly Rock. To the right, look. See where the mountains start? Tucked away in those woods and ridges is Hura Falls,” he said, a new note of excitement in his voice. “The river and streams run right by the house.”

Underneath her dress, Brienne’s hand gripped the leather seat of the car. The road curved and twisted as they rode one hill after another, closer and closer towards familiar sea air. They passed one small friendly village after another and soon enough, they entered a rural land. The expansiveness of land hit Brienne hard because she lived far away from friends and home—her old home. If she wanted to become a bride, she needed to welcome her new home. She now lived across Westeros, in a remote and far too distant house. Casterly Rock was miles away from Lannisport and likely miles from any other house, too.

The hills leveled out, and Jaime’s car drove along a flat road. Never-ending soldier pines surrounded them. Up ahead, a large iron archway displayed Casterly Rock’s name, and the road continued through an open gate. Rusted spokes and old stone walls defended the perimeter. No house could be seen—only vegetation. When the car passed under the archway, the gates behind them crashed closed. By the time Brienne peered back to see what closed them, the road curved left. Due to this, she slipped towards Jaime, a sudden collision into his intimate space. Her gloved hands saved herself by gripping the back of the seat, and she came within two centimeters of touching him. His focused eyes and ears hardly noticed her. With rather poor posture, he leaned closer to the steering wheel, as if he could urge the car to drive faster. But even he knew the dangers of speed, and on twisting turns of the road, he slowed down.

None of this looked like Brienne imagined, so very desolate in comparison to King’s Landing. No, this property was hers now, full of mature trees belonging to a romantic novel. Oaks and birches sprinkled between pines, so tall and intermingled the full power of the sun could not penetrate their leaves. The car floated in dark shade. Flickers of light patched through yellowing leaves. The green pines gave a wonderful scent, and a host of their branches strayed over the road close enough she could touch them with her hands. Brienne gazed out of the car and released a true smile.

The length of the road pressed on. Each turn of the road revealed no garden, no Casterly Rock—only more forest. At once, a clearing of blue sky returned and the trees thinned. Canopies and bark disappeared except surrounding walls of huge blood-red oleanders. The monster-like shrub grew far above their heads, and higher, higher still. Such oppressive and crimson color shocked Brienne to drop lower in her seat.

“A family favorite,” Jaime said. He glanced over and smiled.

These oleanders continued, wall after wall, tunnel after tunnel—all the same slaughterous red. They were more guards than plants, more ghosts of fairy tales than shrubs.

As if shooed away, the sky opened further and the oleanders disappeared. The driveway broadened into the sweep and revealed Casterly Rock. Three stories high of history, built of stone and grace, this mansion belonged in the dark past. Pointed arches, towers and spires gave the mansion an appearance more of a historic sept than an estate. Smoke floated out from the roof in a single curving line. While Jaime parked the car, two men exited the front entryway to help unload the car, but Brienne’s eyes never left Casterly Rock’s thick mullioned windows. Through the glass, she saw a dozen people inside the home. They awaited Brienne and Jaime’s arrival. Her heart burst into a frenzy, as if she was a fresh schoolgirl arriving at an unfamiliar school. Jaime did not prepare her for this.

Jaime swore under his breath. “My sister,” he said, low and almost too soft for Brienne to hear. Glancing at Brienne, he observed her for a moment, followed by a quick look away. His hand rubbed the edge of his ear. Jaime forced the car into park and said more clearly, “She collected the whole damned staff to welcome us.”

At the mention of meeting an entire staff, Brienne felt slightly sick and cold, despite the motion and wind having stopped. The two men at the large front doors hurried down steps. Both of them had a kind face, and when the butler extended his dark hand to help Brienne, she accepted his hand and stepped onto solid ground with a heavy thump.

She stood many centimeters taller than him. “Thank you,” she said, but he turned to the car to unlock the luggage attached to the back of the car. Brienne’s eyes followed his short, wiry black hair, every bit of pigment her hair lacked.

Jaime stepped by her side and gave his hands a tight squeeze. “You look pale,” he said.

Brienne averted her eyes away while her cheeks warmed. Nor did she want to address her anxiety in front of others. “I am fine.”

“Are you waiting for me to pick you up and carry you inside like a new bride?” Jaime tapped his silk hat against his trousers. With a small smirk, Jaime mocked her from time to time, mostly about her naivete when it came to engineering. Her classmates and father’s friends showed similar behavior, and Jaime’s words hardly speared through her, except these words. For two months, he chose not to quip about romance and now his jokes appeared in full force. They never talked about pretending affection, and the thought sounded more cruel than mockery. 

Brienne walked closer to the front door, more embarrassed by leaving people waiting, and said, “Shall we?”

Jaime blinked while his smile curved.

“I mean, shall we go in?” Brienne said, lower and more serious. If he failed lifting her, he would embarrass them both—and for what price? To fool servants into thinking they were in love? She doubted they fooled passengers and crew on the ship, even if they smiled and laughed together at vague jokes in public. Forcing romance sounded worse to Brienne than learning piano. 

He smiled wider, as expected, and looked at the door. Both the footman and butler followed behind them. Brienne’s throat tightened, and she wished she could close her eyes. Her fingers, ice-cold, took off her gloves and held on them—sticky with sweat.

Together, they entered Casterly Rock and walked into an ornate foyer. A host of people stood in the center of the hall; a halo-like sunlight glistened onto them. To their right, a carved wood staircase climbed the left side of the hall and slowly wrapped around the home, leading to an upper gallery with twisted columns. Each piece of wood in this home appeared hand carved for this, its final and elegant purpose. Brienne’s eyes lifted towards dark ceilings covered with medallioned adornments. A gaped, forlorn hole in the ceiling allowed sunlight to trickle in. Light reflected on tiny floating particles of dust. Jagged, rotten ends of wood stuck out from the hole as if a celestial object crashed into the home. Around them, wooden stair rails, paneling and crumbling roof stained dark to the point of black. Musty oak floors beneath their feet contrasted well enough, in their various wooden colors and designs, along with dozens of golden framed portraits along the stairway walls. Each centimeter devoted itself to tracery and detail. Old tapestry hung from the second story. The air felt colder inside than out. 

Her eyes turned to the sea of faces, all curious and staring at her—all of them vastly different from her own. The majority of the staff had black hair, either trimmed within millimeters to their head, bound in locks or allowed to stand naturally several centimeters in a wiry volume Brienne scarcely saw in her life. Their hair and their skin could not have been more different than Brienne’s. Colors of their skin ranged from porcelain to copper to umber. Of the dozen, only a couple servants were as pale as her.

A woman advanced from behind the gathering of people, her features similar to Brienne—light features—but far superior to hers. She was tall, though not as tall as Brienne. Slender, yet voluptuous, with golden hair and green eyes, she dressed in a teal velvet gown. Velvet silk fabric draped over her curves. Peaks of her underskirt peaked out, revealing silk taffeta. Tangles of withered vines ran along the front of her dress. Despite faint bits of damage across the weathered dress, the worn bits mattered little because this woman was beautiful. Full of composure and dignity, she walked towards Brienne, who stood still—unaware she could do anything except stare. Above the woman’s left eye, a faint scar curved upwards, no bigger than a small thread. A matching scar faded above her lip.

An arm’s length away, Jaime stood behind Brienne and tapped the edge of his fingers against his trousers. “Brienne,” he said, voice darker than normal, “this is Miss Cersei Lannister, my sister.”

“I’m delighted to meet you, Madam,” Miss Lannister said and her eyes lifted to view Brienne with openness, like she studied her. Her cheeks lifted higher into a slightly suppressed smile.

“I am, as well, Miss Lannister,” Brienne said and gave a small curtsy.

Jaime’s sister gave him a long and deep gaze. She opened her arms and Jaime reached forward to embrace her. While her brother held her, she returned her eyes to Brienne and said, “Please, just Cersei.”

This woman stared longer than Jaime, as if Brienne were judged or sent to show—a rather dead and heavy gaze, sharper than a sword. Surely, Cersei had reason. They were now sisters, and this woman had entirely no choice in the matter. Brienne gave many people the impression of fear and intimidation, but those who knew her best knew her heart to be as soft as any maiden’s. Jaime whispered in Cersei’s ear. Still, Cersei’s eyes lingered on Brienne’s face, Brienne’s dress…Brienne averted her eyes away. Several staff stared at the three of them. Finally, Jaime pulled back from the hug and the siblings shared a pleasured sigh of relief at their reunion. If only Galladon lived… Brienne had no one.

Jaime motioned for the butler and footman to step closer. “This is Maevor,” Jaime said and gestured towards the butler. The butler’s dark brown eyes looked at Brienne, and if he felt disgust at her appearance, he refused to show it. “And Valon.” Nearby, the footman bowed. Brienne felt out of place, dressed in a fashionable frock while Jaime’s entire staff and sister lived in the past—except, it felt odd calling the servants by their first names. 

Cersei, while her hands remained on Jaime’s jacket, said, “Rhaenagon iēdar syt sūmar.”

“Kessa, Miss Lannister,” Maevor said, rolling the “R” in Lannister. The man clapped his gloved hands together and the staff of servants scattered away like birds flushed from cover. Staff no longer hid the magnificent fireplace behind them, full of flame, carved by marble and large enough for Brienne to crawl inside.

Brienne’s lips parted open in as much shock as everyone’s faces when she entered this hall. She failed to understand this language, and upon a glance at Jaime, he examined his pocket watch. For fear of appearing a fool, she kept her tongue still while Cersei stepped towards the stairs. One of her delicate hands rested on the handrail while the other brushed against the ring of keys strapped to her hip. “Come,” she said, “I will show you your room. You must be cold.”

Even this woman’s voice soothed as it carried through the air, but the lack of choice in her tone gave Brienne pause. Brienne felt foreign, and she squeezed her toes together at the thought of leaving the only person she knew. She was a stranger to everyone, even Jaime. The sister waited, her eyes now trailed down Brienne’s dress again. Jaime made no move to join them, and Brienne thought the better of her impulse to hide. She forced a smile and stepped towards the staircase. From inside the kitchen, far back in the hall, the water kettle screamed louder and louder with steam.

Cersei’s straight posture, a form to emulate, continued as she walked up the stairs. Brienne’s eyes distracted themselves with portraits of golden haired ancestors of Lannister past, all handsome. This family lived here for hundreds of years. Jaime was the heir and solitary male, which emphasized his duty to add to the family line. It meant Brienne shared the duty to provide an heir, although Jaime claimed he had no interest in children. Such an idea made Brienne’s face more liquid rouge than freckles. 

Cersei led the two of them to a large set of stained oak doors and flung them open. The curved and golden ceiling occasionally drooped lower like thorns, finials tipped on their ends. Its almost stalactite features closed in on Brienne as she stepped into the room. Every corner and edge exaggerated into a world of old beauty. At the sight of one large bed, not two, her heart twisted in pain. Most large mansions would provide Brienne with her own separate apartment, at least two beds. Did she need to share a bed with Jaime? Brienne looked towards Cersei, whose fine eyes gazed around the bedroom. Oppressive curtains and rugs silenced dark wallpaper and aged patterned seats. Two large candle chandeliers hovered above their heads, too close for comfort. This room, odd and not quite right, threatened to choke her.

In graceful stride, Cersei walked across the room and pulled a few curtains to the side. Light tried its best to trickle in, but through layers of thick fabric, light failed. Behind Brienne, a maid dragged a large trunk near the dressing room. Wood floors creaked underneath the weight. The maid’s skin, rich with dark amber color, almost matched the brown of Brienne’s crate. The young woman’s hair, a nest of curls, defied gravity. 

Cersei turned, her posture more perfect than Westerosi queen. She gave a soft smile towards Brienne, the type that waited for a response or reaction. Forcing a smile, Brienne was a mannequin, contorted into one awkward situation after another. 

“Aenela has unpacked for you and she will look after you until your maid arrives,” Cersei said.

“I did not bring my maid with me,” Brienne admitted, sounding shyer than she intended. She loved Mrs. Dalla, but at the announcement of her move, Mrs. Dalla showed no interest in joining her, although she and the other servants appreciated their bonuses. Brienne could not bring herself to force Mrs. Dalla to travel across Westeros—to a world with no friends and no family. Brienne gave Mrs. Dalla the choice to run her King’s Landing house or take a sum of money to design fashion. With loads of smiles, Mrs. Dalla accepted both offers.

Cersei smiled, wide enough to reveal similarly ideal teeth as her brother. “I suppose you can use Aenela, should you wish to.” Cersei’s grin died away while she watched the maid fumble with the lock of the trunk. 

Unsure if she truly needed a maid, Brienne remained quiet. She expected to work most of the time, not entertain or travel. At the worst, she did not want to inconvenience Cersei or the servants with her needs. The quiet Aenela crouched over the trunk, dressed in maid attire. 

“Aenela is your maid?” Brienne asked.

“Yes,” Cersei said. Her hands folded before her and her chin slightly raised.

Their conversation reached another stiff and sudden end. This woman spoke fewer words than her brother. A silence settled between. Brienne wished Cersei, who continued to look at her, to go away. Instead, Brienne asked, “I suppose Aenela has been at Casterly Rock for many years?”

Quieter, Cersei said, “No, I’m afraid not.”

Cersei walked away from the window. Shadows formed on her face while she stepped closer to Brienne. Their eyes met, Cersei’s dark and somber, and Brienne felt held by them, along with a strange feeling of foreboding—a strong sense of unwelcome, without a breath of sympathy. All of these dark corners needed light, and she wanted to bring light to this ancient home. 

Brienne’s nails itched. “How long has she been here?”

“All of them came here when the first Mrs. Lannister left Jaime a widower.” Her voice, no longer smooth and angelic, possessed a harshness and animation. Cersei’s eyes sank between them, and she stared at Brienne’s set of folded hands. 

“I see…” Brienne said, muted like Lannisters forbade this topic. Jaime despised speaking of his first wife—he made his point clear. Cersei knew the woman, no doubt. By the sounds in her voice, she may have loved the previous Mrs. Lannister as much as Jaime. Cursed by her own naive youthfulness, Brienne squeezed her hands tighter together. Her right hand fingers rested against the warmed golden ring on her left hand. This was Mrs. Lannister’s ring… The morbid thought shocked Brienne to stand straight and change the subject. “Do any of them speak—” 

“They all only speak Valyrian,” Cersei said and gestured to Maevor to walk in, who waited at the door. He held a tarnished serving tray, full of a small wooden container, tea cups and kettle. Cersei looked to a dark and empty end table, watching Maevor set the tea down. As Cersei walked over, Maevor bowed and she said, “Jaime and I know the language. No need for you to learn it. Come to me with all of your requests and I can pass the message along. Henujagon īlva.”

Maevor and Aenela left the room. 

A strange prick of tears gathered behind Brienne’s eyes. She spoke zero Valyrian, and the solitude ate away at her. Even if Brienne suddenly overcame her shyness with strangers, the staff would forever be strangers to her. There would not be another Mrs. Dalla.

Cersei stood in front of the serving tray, fussing with a small key. She unlocked a small drawer and placed tea leaves on the tea strainer. A spoon hit the edge of porcelain—a painful, strong sound. She leaned closer to pour steamed water over leaves in a porcelain strainer, and the woman took the time to bathe each circular corner of every dry leaf. Steam waved millimeters from her hand, but she did not flinch. To herself, Cersei faintly smiled, as if lost in a pleasant memory. “We have tea in the library in the afternoons. It’s our favorite tradition. This tea is plucked from our tea bushes, all sourced from around the world.” Cersei set the kettle down, locked the small drawer and returned a miniature key to the large ring of keys on her hip. “Today is an exception, and you deserve a warm welcome into the home. Please settle in.”

“Thank you,” Brienne said, and Cersei offered a kind, subdued smile.

Cersei grinned until she asked, “Is there anything else I can have the servants help you with?”

Jaime, once a man she thought lacked companionship and protection, was nowhere to be seen. Now, she never wanted to leave his side. Mrs. Dalla was gone. Renly, Loras and Olenna… all happy for Brienne, as they said in their singular letters, so happy to hear of her marriage and travels, but they were absent as well. Their happiness failed to reach her now. She knew no one, and she felt like a trespasser onto foreign land. Once more, this room suffocated her. She far preferred monstrous oleanders and gardens over this room. 

Brienne stepped towards the tea, its dried green leaves soaked in hot water. “When it’s convenient,” Brienne said, finding her voice, “would you mind getting me a copy of the house keys, please?”

Calm, like a teacher, Cersei said, “You don’t need one.”

“I’m sorry?”

“There are parts of the house that are unsafe. It will take you awhile for you to familiarize yourself.” Cersei’s eyes glanced at the tea.

Brienne tried to connect with Cersei and she failed. She furrowed her brows—unsure again not to respond. To show rudeness or stubbornness towards a new sister sounded horrible. Surely, Cersei had good reasons for her behavior.

“I hope you enjoy the tea,” Cersei said, her voice kind and fragrant. “Maevor will ring the bell when supper is ready.”

Of course, Brienne should enjoy the tea. Her cheeks heated, aware she stared at the tea with a fierce frown. Odd introductions and peculiar rooms did not excuse disrespectful behaviors. She reached for the tea strainer handle— 

“Let the tea steep a minute longer,” Cersei said, her soft hand touched the edge of the serving tray. “I must warn you, the bushes from this part of Westeros are indeed bitter. Think of it as an acquired taste.”

Brienne nodded. Small, repetitive taps scratched against the floor outside the room. Such an alien noise, increasing with every second, made her palms sweat. If ghosts lived anywhere, they would live here. Nameless creatures she never believed in now came to life and wished to haunt her, despite Cersei standing still beside her.

A fluffy, chestnut herding dog walked in, mouth open and smiling. Her nails clicked against the floor as she approached Brienne, until the rugs quieted her once fevered steps. Brienne let out a stumbling smile and offered her hand to the large dog. She sniffed, her nose cold and wet.

“You’ve met Nora,” Cersei said. Her head tilted while she looked at the dog.

“A family dog?” Brienne asked. She would have looked at Cersei for a response, but Nora’s soulful wide eyes commanded attention. Brienne’s hand rubbed the velvet coat on her half-floppy ear. More hair than body, Nora allowed Brienne to continue her pets until her nose stretched forward to smell Brienne’s long skirt. She looked young—not a bit of age about her. Her tail, silken and full of hair, waved with a white tip. Her feet, chest, patch behind her nose and ring around her neck were also white.

“No. Jaime’s.”

Brienne welcomed Nora’s affection so much, she failed to see Cersei greet Jaime at the doorway. When Brienne glanced up, the siblings rotated around. Cersei’s arm tucked between Jaime’s, and he walked her towards the stairs like a proper gentleman. A weight left Brienne, decreasing with each of their steps away from her. Nora stayed, tilting her head to the other side so Brienne could rub her other ear.

Alone, but not nearly as lonely as she feared, Brienne scratched and massaged Nora’s other ear until they both felt content. The dog sank to the floor and watched Brienne remove the tea strainer. Warmth seeped into the fragile tea cup as she brought the cup to her face. Her eyes peered around the room to study it more. She winced at the sight of darkness. Tipping the cup against her lips, rust colored liquid fell into her mouth. Cersei was right about the tea. Sharpness coated her tongue and the inside of her cheeks. The bitterness lingered.


	6. Chapter 6

Perpetual buzzes woke Brienne from sleep. Her eyes opened to a teal lit room. A carved wooden canopy hung over her head. Neck halfway propped on a down-filled pillow, she stared straight ahead. Soft, distant notes of a piano drifted into the room. Morning light reflected on an old drape, the color of cobalt. Brienne did not dream, yet she awoke to a rather mystic nightmare—an unusual room with a man beside her, his breathing slow and deep. She propped herself onto her elbows and peered to the other side of the bed. Covered with a quilt, Jaime slept on his back... unaware of the piano or the hum at the window. Whether it was the floating song from downstairs or the soft light of dawn, Jaime glowed with peace. Blond stubble spread over his sharp jaw, and she knew he would shave it upon waking. He preferred a clean shave, but he would be handsome no matter his choice.

Brienne twisted herself out of bed. On the rug, Nora uncurled herself while her tail thumped. Chilled air stung through Brienne’s thin and pleated nightgown, simple and sheer. She nestled her feet into slippers, thankful they made no noise as she walked over to the window. The buzzing intensified. Pulling back the light curtain, several flies and moths flew towards her like arrows. Brienne ducked to the left as winged creatures flailed around for safety. Dead flies and moths rested on the windowsill. Brienne leaned close enough to see a dead moth trapped between windows—imprisoned for many months, long enough to fly alongside the first Mrs. Lannister. Brienne knew little about Jaime’s first wife, and yet, she felt her presence. 

While the buzzing faded, the piano trailed between notes in a falling melody. Brienne hoisted an open dressing gown over her nightgown and walked down the stairs. Not one servant could be seen.

She followed the music into a large hall and drawing room where natural light filtered through an arched window, several meters high. Light illuminated Cersei, who played the piano. Her teal dress, tight and snug around her body, moved with her as her hands glided across ivory keys.

A long night’s rest gave Brienne a much needed breath, and she felt compelled to understand her new sister at least as well as Jaime. There was no one else to talk to, no one else to bond with. Brienne stepped closer to the piano, and Cersei continued to play, even after Brienne entered her periphery. 

Only when Cersei glanced at Brienne, and stared a moment, did Brienne smile and ask, “That music, what is it?”

A smile sprouted from Cersei’s lips—an offer of friendship. The music continued. Her shoulders rolled and faintly swayed. Her fingers played softly when she said, “An old lullaby I used to sing to Jaime when we were young.”

The thought of Jaime as a child made Brienne smile. “I can imagine you playing music and Jaime coming up with wild inventions.” She turned to the other side of the drawing room. The large room transformed from a feminine musical side to a masculine library. The great fireplace, positioned in the center, crackled.

“We were not allowed in here as children. We were confined to the nursery by the septa. In the attic,” Cersei said. Her heavy words used little emotion. Brienne swallowed and returned her gaze towards Cersei. Without blinking, Cersei continued playing the piano and said, “The septa played the piano sometimes. We’d hear her through the floor.”

Sickness stabbed Brienne’s heart. She frowned. They did not enter the drawing room at all as children? This history explained Jaime’s lack of enthusiasm for religion and poor manners if he was locked away for long periods. “Your mother?” Brienne asked. Surely, no mother would allow their children to be locked away by a septa.

Cersei’s fingers stopped, and the echo of her lullaby faded into stillness. She lifted herself from the seat and gestured to a large painting to her right. Brienne followed her cue and gazed upon a large portrait of a young blonde woman. Looking admirable, the woman rested her left hand near her neck. Her gaze was strong. She wore the same golden emerald ring in the painting as Brienne wore on her hand. 

Beside Brienne, Cersei said, “She died after birth.” Her tone darkened. “That was when everything changed.”

“I’m sorry to hear of her untimely passing,” Brienne said. “My mother died when I was a young child.”

With a smile, which was the most affection Brienne received, Cersei looked at Brienne and said, “I like to think she can see us from up there. I don’t want her to miss a single thing we do.” Similarly to the previous day, Cersei’s green eyes studied Brienne. No doubt, Brienne’s unique features commanded attention, but the close proximity gave her an uncomfortable sense of intimacy. Jaime’s sister stared longer, as if she, not her mother, knew why Brienne married Jaime. Perhaps she did. Convenience thrived where love could not. Considering who was Jaime’s previous wife, a beautiful and accomplished woman... Brienne hardly compared. Yes, that was the look in Cersei’s roaming eyes: comparison.

Cersei looked across the room. “Come, let me show you the library in detail. Full of family heirlooms.”

A cold and slender arm wrapped around the small of Brienne’s back, and the two of them walked to the opposite side of the enormous drawing room. Along her back, Cersei’s arm turned limp and heavy, like a lifeless appendage. Cersei let Brienne go in order to walk up a short set of stairs to an open gallery of bookcases. Wooden steps groaned under their feet. What seemed like thousands of books covered every wall, from floor to within her reach at the tip of her toes. Far away from the drawing room fire, cold ash and fresh logs were laid into another fireplace in the library, but it was not lit. Brienne tugged her fabrics closer into a tighter hold and asked, “Are all these books yours?” 

“Father collected most of these.” Cersei walked to a tiny, wooden cabinet on a table, near the window. Key in hand, she unlocked a drawer and asked, “Have you heard of a fore-edge illustration?”

“No.” Brienne’s stomach grumbled. Even so, she pushed through the hunger and stepped closer to the window. Outside, several servants tended to the garden. One of them threw a pile of leaves at another, and a playful fight ensued. 

“There are images hidden in books,” Cersei said as she turned. Brienne snapped her attention from the gardens and redirected it towards Cersei, who held an old book in her palm. The woman’s tense smile remained as she tilted the book in the light of the window. Where once there was no image, a world of color appeared at the edge of the every page. The illustration showed two naked people, one laying on another, and both of their heads between the other’s thighs. Brienne’s heart yelped and cheeks flushed.

“From Yi Ti.” Cersei leaned a little closer. The image disappeared but Brienne averted her eyes to the window. Cersei pulled the book back to her chest, the hardback of the book rustled against the vine decorations on her dress. “This can’t shock you, now that Jaime and you…”

Mouth open, Brienne sputtered, “No—” One glance towards Cersei revealed her patient and slight grin. Brienne tried to smile back, but her well of emotions denied her. Perhaps she behaved wrongly; or did Cersei, an unmarried woman, want children in this home? Jaime never indicated he wanted children, never touched Brienne… even last night. “He has been very respectful. Nothing has happened.”

“How considerate. In time, everything will be right.” Cersei returned the book to its cabinet and locked it. “I’ve found the racier the book, the more realistic it is. They are not all locked and as valuable as this one. I recommend you read as much as you please. Some shy away from it like mice, but there are lessons to be learned from literature. Women deserve every bit of pleasure as men, even if you are by yourself.” She stared across the drawing room at the piano. Cersei whispered, “We deserve more than them, I’m sure of it.”

Brienne walked a hair closer. “Do you subscribe to the New Woman values, such as self-fulfillment and independence?”

Cersei looked over her shoulder. “Nothing is new in my eyes. I never cared for self-sacrifice. Our father wanted to marry me off. He knew if I did not marry, I would be obliged to watch and care for him in old age. I wanted neither marriage or to care for him. He died and well… I do what I please.”

Brienne managed a smile. 

“Jaime says you are an engineer. Do you not use your mind for reading or piano?”

“I am fond of reading and piano, but I fear I am not very well skilled at piano.” 

“A shame. Men only listen to women with such skills.” Cersei stepped to the window, near Brienne. “I suppose your wit grabs them by the ear?” Instead of looking at Brienne, she peered into the garden.

Brienne followed the woman’s gaze and together, they watched three gardeners trim rose bushes. Brienne bit back a smile before she said, “Sometimes.”

“Do you like the garden?” Cersei asked.

“Very much so, I do. I have yet to explore all of it.”

“See that patch of dead grass? I’ve always wanted a satyr statue there, even better, a fountain. He would play his pipes and I would play my piano.”

Brienne did not know statues well or a satyr. As Cersei said, women deserved what they wanted, thus Brienne nodded. In a way, Brienne admired Cersei’s stubbornness, and their poor introduction may have been false. This woman now lived a life Brienne once thought would be her own: without marriage and without children.

Cersei tilted her head and frowned at Brienne’s face. “You are younger than you look, are you not? You should eat breakfast. The servants prepared scrambled eggs, bacon and fish in the dining room. Do you require anything else?” 

Brienne’s entire face looked older and more masculine than anyone would have preferred. Her height alone made her appear older, even as a girl, save for her miniature breasts. As a new bride and woman with power, Brienne wanted to make a decision for herself. “Could we light the fire here? It’s a bit chilly.”

“The fire is not lit in the library until the afternoon. Mrs. Lannister always used the morning room after breakfast.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Cersei gave her half a smile and whirled around to leave. Despite the frigid chill, warmth crept back in after Cersei left and turned the corner to leave the drawing room.

On her own time, Brienne walked down the small steps and forced herself to hum a tune. She never saw the morning room. She lost herself in an old and medieval kitchen. Several servants bustled and stared at her with surprised expressions. The smells of hot oil reminded her to take breakfast, and she smiled through her warmed cheeks, ducking her way out of the smokey kitchen. From inside the kitchen, one of the servants laughed.

Brienne pressed on and entered the dining room, poorly lit and full of stored porcelain. Dressed, clean shaven and across the table, Jaime read a letter under candlelight. His ears picked up on Brienne’s ungraceful entrance, or maybe he felt the heat radiating from her cheeks, because he looked up the moment she walked forward. He hesitated in his chair as if he might rise to greet her, but his body remained seated while he said, “Good morning.”

Since their arrival on the ship, she hardly heard his voice. “Good morning,” she said, unaware if she should serve herself or wait for a servant. Fish bones, citrus remnants and an unpeeled tangerine were on Jaime’s plate.

“Serve yourself,” he said.

Brienne took a couple boiled eggs. “Are there any more tangerines?”

“No. Have mine,” Jaime said. “Also, sit closer. I have news.”

Her legs tightened, harder than steel. She managed to turn and sit adjacent to Jaime. He set the letter down, plopped his tangerine onto Brienne’s plate and rubbed his ear.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone our visit to Hura Falls. A good friend of mine, his wife and a guest asked themselves over to lunch.”

“Today?” Brienne’s spirits sank to zero.

“Yes, his name is Addam Marbrand. I think you’ll like him. Until then, I have a mass of things to do. Do you think you can amuse yourself?”

“I shall be quite happy,” Brienne said. By the crack in her voice, she failed to hide her lie. She took the tangerine on her plate. Her fingers tried their best to peel the fruit in one sliver, but two scoops in and she failed. She continued anyway, plucking off the peel of the baby tangerine. Jaime reread his letter and Brienne hoped a meal would prevent her desire to tear at her nails. She pressed a wedge into her mouth, closed her lips and the flesh popped between her teeth. The sharp, bitter taste made Brienne wince. She swallowed it, feeling forced to follow table manners. 

His eyes abandoned the letter and his brows furrowed towards her.

Compelled to explain, she said, “It’s…”

“Sour?” He asked. “I know.”

His look softened and they shared a plain look, one in an attempt to understand each other. Jaime smiled mildly. Brienne parted her lips and let out a faint gasp. His smile grew. 

“Does your tongue prefer plain tastes and a lack of adventure?” he asked.

She meant to disagree with him, but the image of the sexual illustration haunted her memory—their tongues buried against another’s skin. Her tongue scarcely adventured _anywhere_. She only kissed in her dreams, she hardly sampled the world’s spices, and she never tasted a lover. Brienne flushed.

Jaime gave a whispered laugh and set his cloth napkin on the table. He stood and gathered his letter. “Only eat if you like.” He left.

Lingering far longer than she intended, Brienne sprang to her feet when Maevor walked in. By his widened eyes, he did not expect to see her. She apologized for sitting so late, but her words hardly mattered. He spoke little Common Tongue, if any. Heat ate away her cheeks and she left the room to find the morning room. Still, she did not know where it was. Halfway up a step, two women on the top of the stairs stopped at the sight of Brienne: a foreign, freckled ghost. They dropped their smiles and stared, their language barrier far too thick for either of them to communicate. By their body language alone, Brienne knew the morning room was not upstairs and no one expected her to go upstairs at all. She managed a weak curtsy, turned and tried again.

Through the drawing room, on the musical side, Brienne opened a singular door and entered into a lovely room. Modest in comparison to the foyer or drawing room, the morning room fit a desk, hutch, fireplace and ornaments. It might have been the most beautifully proportioned room of the estate. Large windows, with curtains pulled back, looked out upon sloping lawns and the sea. Unlike the rest of the home, stained in a permanent blue hue, this room bled crimson. Almost every thread fabric on the floor and furniture burned an element of red. She stepped into another home, it seemed, one furnished with chairs and tables without price. Nora sat before the fire, wagging her tail against the rug twice. This was her routine, and Mrs. Lannister had likely come to this room every morning.

Vases of flowers massed on the mantelpiece… Blood red oleanders, burgundy dahlias and fiery carnations. Dark amaranth swooped lower, along the porcelain vases, and they tapped the marble of the mantelpiece. Bits of blue monkshood sprinkled between the sea of red flowers. The foliage certainly commanded attention. The writing desk, across the room and near a large window, beckoned for Brienne to take a seat.

When she sat and gazed across the morning room, she knew a woman decorated this room. Pigeon-holes in the desk were labeled with their purpose: letters unanswered, letters to keep, household, estate, menus, miscellaneous, addresses. Brienne knew this writing. Each word scrawled in the same curved hand Brienne saw in the book of poetry. Upon opening a drawer, she discovered more the same: a titled leather bound book with complete records of guest’s visitations and meal preferences. Underneath, white paper organized into thick piles, ready to write and use. Having pulled out a paper, “Mrs. Lannister” drawn at the top. Her first name remained a mystery to Brienne, but this woman lived everywhere. Brienne felt like a guest rifling through the hostesses’ items. She shut the drawer and slumped. It was as if, at any moment, Mrs. Lannister might walk through the door and catch her.

The telephone jolted and rang, an object she hardly noticed compared to the papers. Brienne inhaled a sharp breath and observed it. This house did not have electricity yet—perhaps Mrs. Lannister’s ghost called. Upon quick analyzing, the battery revealed itself while the bell clanged. Logic calmed her mind, but trepidation plagued her heart. Brienne swallowed and took the receiver.

“Who is it?” she asked.

A strange buzz lulled in her ear until she heard in a thick accent, “Mrs. Lannister?”

“I’m afraid you have made a mistake,” Brienne said, “Mrs. Lannister has been dead for almost a year.”

She heard nothing more and replaced the receiver. But it was too late. Brienne _was_ Mrs. Lannister. 

A knock on the door startled her further. Cersei stood by the doorway, her head tilted to the left. Her golden hair braided except a few long strands framed around her ears. “That was the house telephone. Likely the gardener, wishing for instruction. I’ll take care of it. When you’re finished with your letters, Valon will take them to the post.”

Fingers almost shaking, Brienne gave short, quick nods and said, “Thank you, Cersei.” 

Even after Cersei left, Brienne bored herself to death at the desk. The oppression by the presence of Mrs. Lannister agitated her to leave the morning room, Nora in tow, and Brienne returned to her bedroom and unpacked the rest of her trunk. Her wrists and fingers ached working behind her back. After several tries, she succeeded in tightening her corset. She wore a light beige bodice and rusted orange skirt, but the effort of dressing herself made her want to ask for Aenela’s help the next time she needed to wear a dress. 

The obnoxious sound of a gasoline car drove her into a panic. It was noon and time for lunch. Jaime’s friends arrived and Brienne considered hiding, but where? Nora wandered over to the doorway and peered back to Brienne, as if to encourage her to face yet another introduction to a set of strangers. She had no choice. In this world of new and unfamiliar routines, meeting new people gave her more grief than she felt in months. 

Voices lingered from the foyer. Brienne tip-toed out through the bedroom, down the stairs and towards the group of people at the entryway.

“Addam,” Jaime said, voice warm and inviting. The two men hugged as Brienne approached. Addam’s copper hair brushed against Jaime’s shoulders.

“Here she is,” Addam said. He appeared kind, but not nearly as handsome as Jaime. Wrinkles traced around his eyes and forehead.

Brienne managed to smile weakly and stepped forward while Nora danced around them. Jaime and Addam moved aside, unblocking two women from view. One of the women, pale and plump, resembled uncooked dough. She was brunette and older, perhaps the same age as Addam, and she widened her eyes at the sight of Brienne. A curtsy did nothing to tame the woman’s shock. The other woman beside her, a much younger woman with bronze skin, wore a simpler pastel frock and found it hard to keep her eye contact steady. Her chest breathed a hair too fast. In comparison, Missandei’s and Brienne’s hairs were worlds apart. This woman’s hair curved like dark copper wires into endless curls, nothing like Brienne’s lifeless straw hair. 

“This is Mrs. Brienne Lannister,” Jaime said, “Mrs. Lannister, meet Mr. Addam Marbrand, Mrs. Darlessa Marbrand and...”

“Miss Missandei,” Addam said. He joined his two hands behind his back. “Perfect name, wouldn’t you say?”

“Marbrand?” Jaime asked his friend.

Addam paused and nodded. “Yes.” 

Jaime turned to the young woman and bowed. Brienne repeated her curtsy and Missandei mirrored it, although far better. It felt odd to call a young single woman by her first name, but Missandei made no move to correct her relative.

“Let’s have a picnic in the gardens, before the winter imprisons us for the season,” Jaime said and extended his arm. 

Darlessa and Missandei followed his cue, meanwhile, Addam sprouted a devious smile. Addam said, “Congratulations on your bride. I should also congratulate you on that hole appearing bigger than when I saw it last.”

Jaime chuckled once and waited for Brienne’s arm. “I’ve had more than enough on my mind at this house, and you know I do not care for it. Let’s go somewhere with beauty, not gloom.”

Brienne allowed Jaime to guide her and the rest of them outside, where fresh air filled her lungs. At the end of the steps, Jaime retreated his warm arm and strolled alongside Addam as they talked. Brienne walked to her own tempo; her thoughts overwhelmed themselves at his statement, a first vulnerability of his. He, too, thought Casterly Rock was ghastly... so horrible he would not dare to bring guests through its doors. Brienne was not so sure of her role or purpose here. She felt like a guest and prisoner all tangled into one. If he asked her to finance the rebuilding of such chaos—

“You are quite different from what I expected,” Darlessa said to Brienne.

Her face a mask, Brienne smiled, but she did not understand what Darlessa expected. In a train, they walked through the garden, and now, through a pathway in the forest the width of her shoulders. Large trees loomed overhead. Nora followed in the brush.

From ahead, Addam said to Jaime, “You’re looking much better than when I last saw you.”

Brienne’s heart, a tender organ, wanted to weep for Jaime. When Addam saw him last, it might have been when Mrs. Lannister passed. Based on the slow roll of Jaime’s neck, he disliked Addam’s statement.

“Remember the ball?” Addam said, after a quiet moment. “You should host another, like old times!”

“Yes, please do, Jaime.” Darlessa pulled at her dress hem as she crossed over a log as thick as her calves. 

Long legs allowed Brienne to easily step over the fallen log, and her eyes soaked in the beauty around her. Tall, mature oaks grew close together and fields of dahlias covered almost every bit of the ground. A sprinkle of orange and yellow helenium poked through.

“You know I prefer masquerades,” Jaime said, “However, my time must be spent on the power house.”

Almost to the point of sweating or losing one’s breath, they walked for a half hour through autumn forest paths until they stood on the slope of a wooded hill. Brienne lost her breath from the sight alone. The path curved down into a valley a hundred meters wide by a small running stream. A break in the seemingly hundreds of soldier pines and oaks allowed the sun to bathe a field of passionate red carnations—all in bloom—a sea of red on stems of green. Brienne smiled at the fragrant scent of their sweet and heady blossoms. Unlike the morning room, these flowers inspired her, as if a painter personally dabbed each delicate flower into the scene. Birds sang symphonies in the nearby oaks.

“It’s a shock, isn’t it?” Jaime said. “No one ever expects it. The contrast is too sudden, it almost hurts.”

“More flowers than last year. Much more,” Addam said.

Missandei stepped forward, stooped and picked up a fallen petal. In her fingers, she tried to flatten the petal to its original shape. Jaime tucked his thumbs into his pocket.

“More than enough flowers to decorate a ball,” Darlessa said.

“And who is going to hike all the way out here and harvest these flowers?” Jaime said, “Do I sense a volunteering opportunity?”

“Oh, hush. Her?” Addam said. “I’m surprised she walked this far at all. No, why gather flowers when only one sex enjoys them? I far prefer you host a night of liquor, billiards and cards.”

“And what will the women do?” Darlessa asked.

“Pluck flowers!” Addam huffed out a laugh. “I daresay, the female sex brings it upon themselves.”

Brienne squeezed her toes and looked away.

Jaime smirked and lowered his head, as if he meant to taunt Addam. “Need I remind you, it was you who suggested the ball in the first place.”

Missandei suppressed a giggle and shared a quick glance with Brienne. Her gold-like eyes smiled. Her full cheeks and rounded lips, youthful yet mature, welcomed Brienne to smile back. She did. 

A hurrying cloud covered the sun, and the five of them returned back for their picnic. Jaime and Addam continued their verbal battle. Harsh opinions bothered Jaime little, and Brienne took note of his ability to listen. As a group, they settled on a rug underneath a large oak tree, in the front lawn of Casterly Rock. Rain clouds threatened above them, and their picnic ended abruptly at the tap of raindrops.

Jaime and Brienne wished their guests goodbye as thin rain started to fall. Valon hurried across the lawn to rescue chairs and the rug.

Brienne wanted to smile at the guest’s early departure, but she had no interest to return back inside the dreary estate.

“Does rain scare you?” Jaime asked, his tone harsher than his voice throughout the previous hour.

“No.”

“Good. I want a walk.”

Instead of walking, Jaime waited for Maevor to rush down the front steps with his hands full of two raincoats, one larger than the other. Brienne offered a smile and waited for Jaime to take his rain coat and slip it on. Maevor gently handed Brienne the raincoat, though it was not hers. Her raincoat remained packed away in a trunk not yet delivered to Casterly Rock. Halfway with her arm tucked into the foreign coat’s sleeve, she knew it would not fit.

“It’s too small,” she said. Rain tapped the top of her head.

Maevor’s throat bobbed while Jaime said, “Rōvykta.”

“Daor, Mr. Lannister—”

“I know, I know,” Jaime said, and waved Maevor away with the smaller coat. “He still needs to find my other coat.” He twisted out of his raincoat and said, “Wear mine.”

“I do not need one.”

“And ruin your dress? At least wear the damn thing, and if it fits, we’ll buy another.”

He took off his coat and extended the coat for Brienne to accept. She averted her attention away, accepting the coat. His potential smirks or laughs failed to interest her, although she heard nothing as she covered herself with his coat, still warm to the touch. She looked at him. A drop of rain trickled down his cheek, slowing at the slope of his jaw until another drop joined and they raced along the front of his throat. Even in the rain, he still glowed as brightly as he did when she woke. When his eyes glimpsed at hers, she looked down at the coat and tugged it closer to her chest. His coat smelled of him, of masculine musk—so very different from flowers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @Dialects_and_Costumes for location scouting and answering my questions about the amazing Snoqualmie Falls in Washington, USA. In this chapter, we visit the power plant (also called power house) and it is heavily inspired by a real power plant built in 1899. I also want to credit Charles Baker, the courageous engineer and architect who built the Snoqualmie Falls Hydroelectric Plant. He is a large inspiration for Jaime (and a bit of Brienne, too).
> 
> If you are interested in the engineering aspect of Hura Falls, check out this amazing article from 1901: https://reference.insulators.info/publications/view/?id=1038 (Thank you @Dialects_and_Costumes for sourcing this article for me.)

Brienne’s raincoat, bicycle and the remainder of her belongings arrived in the night. Jaime saw to the delivery while she lay in bed, alone, thinking of their quiet walk in the gardens. The rose gardens and flowers bloomed until the oncoming cold weather forbade it. While strolling, they both daydreamed in their own quiet way. Mazes gave her the idea Jaime, or Cersei, played in the gardens as children… but Brienne knew better than to ask. She wondered if they could see the garden from the attic. Their walk lingered until Maevor rang the bell for afternoon tea—a taste Brienne despised.

In the morning, Jaime prepared himself for the day without waking Brienne. On his side of the bed, sheets and quilt were bundled into a mess. It smelled faintly of him but she thought his scent saturated his raincoat best. His coat fit her better than her own.

Aenela tapped on the bedroom door, ready to help Brienne dress. Despite not speaking Common Tongue, Aenela knew how to arrange pieces properly. She noticed when Brienne winced at the tightened corset, as Brienne preferred a looser fit. Aenela loosened and watched for Brienne’s smiles or frowns in the looking glass. Today’s burned gold dress resembled a canary, and her shoulder-sleeves puffed out like butterfly wings. Four black buttons, each the size of a large coin, pinned folds of the dress across her chest and belly. Black fabric wrapped around her neck similar to a cravat. For a woman without much color, the dress brought out the blue in her eyes. Brienne thanked Aenela for her help, though she did not understand it, and they left the room together, trading timid smiles. Brienne descended to the dining room for breakfast.

Jaime sat at the head of the dining table, as he always did, and Cersei sat to his left. She wore her teal gown again. In his long sleeve white shirt and black vest, Jaime stopped his conversation at once when Brienne entered the room. Cersei turned her head to look with him. Her chin lifted, amid a soft smile, and she said, “I hear you have your own car. Do you plan on running away?”

Jaime chuckled and shook his head. Both of them sat behind plates of crumbs.

Brienne did not laugh, though she stepped closer. “Did it arrive?” Her face tightened and she immediately forgot about breakfast.

“Yes,” Jaime said. He lacked the same excitement. “Make sure to eat well today. The two of us will be leaving for Hura Falls soon and we won’t be back until afternoon tea.”

Cersei stared at Jaime while her smile dropped. “I can’t stand the place. It’s loud and smells of oil and dirt.”

“You,” Jaime said and stood, “run this estate just fine. You’re exactly where I need you.” Jaime leaned over and pecked the top of Cersei’s head with a kiss. His sister’s calm eyes moved to Brienne, still across the room. Jaime straightened his posture but remained at Cersei’s side. He focused entirely on his sister. Brienne glanced away while Cersei stood. The intimacy of sibling love reminded her of Loras and his sister—relationships Brienne did not understand. Her own brother and infant sisters died young.

“I’ll work on your letters,” Cersei said, her voice perturbed. Brienne offered a timid smile when she walked by, but Cersei continued without acknowledgement and left the dining room. 

While Brienne piled scrambled eggs onto her plate, Jaime said, “We will leave as soon as you’re ready.”

Brienne stopped. A long blonde hair stuck to the edge of the bacon serving plate. Nothing was hers, not even these tarnished, old platters. She decided nothing. Others planned her entire day for her, her every move. She slept in a dreary room and met with strangers. “Can we take my car?” Brienne asked. 

He laughed. “With what power? You will drive it up there and it will die, if you’re not already lucky enough for it to die halfway up the slope. Then you would be driving a runaway car backwards.” He laughed again.

She abandoned the plate of bacon and took a seat at the table. Jaime waited for her response, but the airy look in his eyes disappeared. His head tilted and eyebrows furrowed; his newfound disagreeable mood enough to sour one’s appetite. Brienne, with a simple question, managed to transform this man into an aggressive Tesla coil. Almost no man could answer a question without making the asker feel inferior. Brienne found it bitter despite the fact he had a valid point to his logic. She would never dare to admit her defeat... unless absolutely cornered.

Without the will to agree, she said, “What about my bicycle? Are the falls easy to find?”

Jaime stared open faced. His brows unfurrowed and arched. After taking two steps closer to the table, he shook his head and said, “Ride with me.” He neither asked or requested politely, and he had yet to answer her question.

She deduced the falls _were_ easy to find, else he would not admit defeat. He doubted her, just as before, just like every other man. “You don’t think I can do it? Why?”

His hands clenched into a brief fists. “It will take you two hours.”

“I’ve ridden a bicycle more than two hours.” Brienne kept her gaze steady towards him, as strong as roots buried into the ground. She kept her face a mask, for if she revealed her sudden rise in anger, it might only fuel his.

It did not matter, because he had already turned cross. He raised his voice. “Uphill? Why do you defame and curl your lip at my car? I must confess, I have no idea why you insist on doing everything the hard way.”

To accept his help felt hardest of all. Spine made of straight steel, Brienne said calmly, “What is hard for you is not hard for me.”

“I don’t have time for squabbles and I’m leaving now. If you understood the work needed, you would agree with me, for once. If you want to pedal your way up to the power house with your two feet and two wheels, be my guest. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just as likely to fall off a cliff with your blindness. I suppose you’ll do that to spite me, as well?”

Brienne snapped her gaze away. He left the room. When she ate her first bite of cold, scrambled egg, the rumbles of Jaime’s gasoline car reverberated from outside the home. She ate as quickly as her soured stomach allowed and returned to her room.

She shed her feminine wear and donned her cycling outfit: a tailored long sleeve and white button shirt with thin vertical stripes and a set of dark bloomer trousers. A simple blue bow tied across her neck. She transformed into a bird, feeling like she could fly to wherever she wanted. Wires no longer dug into her hips and fear of exposing her legs washed away. No skirt limited her movement; no hem or fabric would tangle in the spokes of wheels. Many women perished riding bicycles with full skirts and gowns, and according to the papers Brienne read, some said their deaths proved female’s incompetence to ride. She refused to let their unfounded statements influence _her_ behavior, even if their words stained her memory. “Bicycles are a man’s activity” and “Unchaperoned women on bicycles are involved in prostitution or lesbianism”.

And with a child-like smile, she ran down the stairs. She found her bicycle in the flower room, towards the front of the house. Her heeled boots fit perfectly once she straddled the bicycle. Breath tense, she let the light and thin machine hold her weight—a terrifying balance for a split second. Her weight leaned onto the pedal and wheels creaked on crunching gravel. Maevor, Valon, Aenela and others watched from the front steps of the house, their mouths curved into open smiles. Brienne waved. They waved back, except Aenela, who squeezed her hands into tight balls.

Luck spared Brienne’s impulse to ride her bicycle without direction. The pleasant ride through Casterly Rock’s grounds split into a fork outside of the gates. A short, wooden sign pointed her in the direction of the falls. The forest of Casterly Rock disappeared rather quickly, and rolling hills of grass and brush greeted her along with the warm sun. Soft breezes lost their sea-like scent the longer she cycled, and soon, fresh pine and dewy grass surrounded her. Tires formed a unique harmony with the road, rolling and pushing her up one meter at a time. Dull aches nagged at her legs, but she refused to listen.

A hawk soared overhead in wide and high circles. The hills and valleys reminded her of books she read as a child, with their sketches of Tarth, her ancestral family land. Other than this dirt road, occasionally used by travelers or tenants, no one touched this land. Climbing crags plunged Brienne into shadows, and she entered a different land at the turn of a corner. The road twisted into a poor thread between cramped cliffs. Once flattened out, cliffs appeared again within a minute of riding—all the while, her own body driving her weight and bicycle up a slope. She breathed harder… dust, dirt and minerals in her throat and lungs. Her ride, while pleasant and worthy of a wonderful exercise, continued for over an hour.

Around the hundreth corner, a narrow stream confronted her. Water, the size of her arm, poured out of rockfaces and oozed onto jagged rock beneath it. Native plants huddled together left and right—gorgeous soldier pines older than a century. She rode through large clouds of gnats, right at eye level. Another side of a short crag bled water from its cracks. Her own labored breathing overshadowed the sounds of drops on jagged rock. One low whisper persisted. She looked to the pine trees, now taller than before, and sweat trickled down the back of her neck. Her mind, in a state of exhaustion, wondered if the trees whispered to her.

The whisper, from its unknown source, grew. Once large and well paved, the road dwindled into an uneven source of dips and jagged stone. The road also turned a sharp corner to the left, but a wooden sign posted above a path read, “Hura Falls.” Brienne veered right.

Whispers transformed into a woosh and a hum, all at once, loud and oppressive. Pine leaves were unable to drink in the growing noise, but they blocked the sight of the source well enough. No waterfall lay ahead of her. She rode on, bouncing on a simple hiking path, penetrating deeper into the very soul of the dark forest. The lack of clearing made her heart jolt into a hard lump of lead. Her ears played tricks on her. Perhaps sweat stuck to her skin and not the damp air. Low vibrations tingled her tight fingers around the handlebar. She rode slower, and the dull shake continued. A half-dozen logs blocked the path, and beyond them, an opening revealed stones stabbed into a riverbed. She found Hura Falls. Brienne swung her warm and aching leg over the bicycle and leaned it against the trunk of an elderly pine. Her chest rattled and the ground, solid and rather dry, trembled ever so slightly under her feet. Moss hung from branches and grew on its bark. She walked forward, ignoring the weakness sprouting from her legs and the slippery stones. 

On her last corner, Brienne turned and her eyes widened. Powerful sounds, sensations and sight coalesced into the largest waterfall she could possibly imagine. She stood at the base, a few hundred meters downriver; but it mattered little because the waterfall towered at least one hundred meters tall, more sublime than the tallest building in King’s Landing. Large white streams of water glistened under beautiful sunlight. A mist breathed over her face as if the waterfall was a living creature. She stared for what felt like hours. The falls transfixed her into a peaceful, rather spiritual trance.

A man, the size of a doll compared to the falls, popped out of a hole next to the waterfall. Beside him, mountains of stairs without rails climbed to the top of the cliff, where the river originated. Brienne swallowed, nodded her head and left to retrieve her bicycle. She lifted her bicycle and carried it with her while she stepped over wet stone and rippling river. Closer to the falls, the mist intensified into a perpetual fog, coating any surface daring to enter its grasp. 

She climbed the steep stairs and refused to let her eyes look down. The mist soaked her, in addition to the slimy bicycle in her left hand. Only halfway up the endless stairs did she consider the possibility of her foolishness. The price of life and safety was not worth the value of a bicycle, but she owned it—it was a part of her. She tugged her bicycle closer to her body, which diversified the muscle use in her arm. No doubt, she would be sore for days.

When she surfaced the top of the cliff, many meters from the start of the falls, eight men dropped their eating utensils at the sight of her. Their lunch strewn about their huddle like child’s blocks. Brienne cleared her throat and walked into an area she pretended she belonged. Wet and heavier, she set the bicycle against a small concrete pillar and wiped her forehead. The mist mixed in with her sweat, and cooled her, but the effort of climbing stairs stung her lungs breathless the same as the ride. She turned, offered a smile to the sitting men, a dozen or so, and said, “Hello.”

The lot of men nodded, and five remained speechless. One whispered Valyrian to another. Others spoke a language she did not recognize at all. Brienne’s throat tightened. Why was every worker from Essos, Sothoryos or farther? Jaime meant to exploit them, similarly to how men exploited foreigners in King’s Landing? She worried they had been taken against their will, or they were paid nothing... or both. Her conclusion left a permanent bitterness in her mouth to know he traveled the world not for pleasure, but for cheap labor and domination. 

Behind them, she spotted Jaime; his expression parted into a stupefied stare directly at her. Brienne lifted her chin and heaved her chest. He approached, his hand dropping the large blueprint beside his thigh. She remained still. His eyes narrowed the closer he came, and the workers closest to her returned to their lunch.

He stopped a meter in front of her, eyes locked on hers before they examined her legs and arms. When his eyes returned to hers, she expected one of his jests or a continuation of their earlier disagreement. For once, at a moment of conflict, he said nothing. His throat bobbed. She prepared for the worst.

It should not have surprised her when he smirked. A lost strand of golden waves stuck to the side of his forehead while he cocked his head. “Did you see your aluminum wires on the way up?”

Her breathing calmed enough to allow her lips to close, but her heart raced on. “No,” she said, unaware he decided to use her plan. He tightened his gaze rather quickly, and she looked to the river, about fifty meters wide. She assumed he disliked her answer or disliked her defiance. “I don’t believe so,” she said. 

“Well, they saved us a great deal of money. Let’s hope they work,” he said, never giving up an opportunity to doubt her significance. She stood taller than him, but in this moment, she knew he felt taller.

“They will work.”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

He paused, and she preferred to let her work speak for herself. She looked away from him.

Jaime said, “When one of the workers said a big, lumbering beast climbed those stairs with a bicycle, it took me a minute to realize he was talking about you. I let him go.” His innocent smile failed to fool her. 

Her face twisted and glared. “Who’s to say he mistook the beast for you?”

He laughed, but she meant for it to sting. “A good quip for quip, I must say.”

“You think it’s a quip to call me a lumbering beast?”

Smile wilting, he frowned and said, “How else did you ride your way up here? I bet your thighs are as thick as corded wood.”

Brienne averted her eyes away, half tempted to ride back to Casterly Rock.

“Why are we standing here?” he said, “you’re only going to get more wet than you already are. Do you prefer to wear trousers?” 

He turned to walk away and honor compelled Brienne to follow. “It doesn’t matter what I wear,” she said, truly believing it. If she wore a skirt or trousers, heels or slippers, people judged her.

“Don’t wear conductive metal gowns or trousers, and I’ll be pleased.”

Brienne glared at him, and he smiled at his own joke.

“I do hope you don’t insist on riding here every day. You’re quite late.”

“I appreciated the ride,” Brienne said, and his face deepened into a frown. If she cycled daily, she would waste hours of important work to serve others. She inhaled and walked alongside Jaime as they stepped onto concrete floor near a slight dam in the river. “But with respect and quiet, I may be able to join you.”

Jaime gave a soft and subtle laugh. “Fair enough,” he said. “Are you ready for your tour? I have a lot to show you.”

Brienne nodded and gazed with him over the dam and into the river. She clasped her hands in front of her. Her wet sleeves stuck to her arms.

“There’s a small cofferdam upstream, and we can add or subtract from it as needed.”

“Is the water always this clear?” Brienne asked.

“Pure and clear almost every day, except sand and silt after freshets or heavy rain. Twenty eight cubic meters of water per second at minimum flow, up to about 300 cubic meters at the maximum, about the same size as Blackwater River. Average velocity 3.33 meters per second. For the stage of the river, there is a daily record kept every morning and every evening.”

They slipped into their newlywed routine: a world of engineering and professionalism. He walked her through the concrete area, where a handful of cars parked next to two brick buildings. Bunched wires escaped the roof of one building, likely with transformers, and Jaime walked to the brick building beside it. He opened a metal gate and stepped inside an elevator, his weight forcing the floor to bounce faintly. Brienne rubbed her fingers against her palm and walked inside.

It was only two meters across and two meters deep. The roof of the elevator brushed against her head, and when the gate closed, the elevator jolted down in a jagged shake. Jaime remained still, but Brienne lost her breath. With no handles or bars to hold onto, she clasped her hands together. A blistering cold draft came up as they slowly sank, and the close proximity of Jaime made her dizzy. 

“Rock is solid, which allowed us to build underground. Do you know why we didn’t build the power house at the base?”

“No,” she said, unable to think past her spinning heart. 

“The mist would turn it to rust and destroy everything. In the winter, ice would be free to invade and ruin whatever would be left. So we built it underground. The water travels through a massive concrete and steel tunnel. This isn’t just an experiment. This is going to be a successful transmission. I can feel it.”

When the elevator stopped and the ground stabilized, blood rushed to Brienne’s head and she asked, “What prevents logs from entering the intake tunnel?”

Jaime stopped opening the elevator gate and whispered, “Smart question.” He turned and said louder, “A timber grate and steel girder frame. Before we allow water through, they have a strong and thick steel cover to prevent water from pouring in before we’re ready. Forebay divides into two headbays and their own opening into penstocks.” He pointed to a bulb outside the elevator gate. “Almost 700 incandescent lamps light the shaft, chamber and tunnel.”

Brienne gazed around them. The once green gate drowned in a warm glow, powered by temporary steam. 

“There’s natural draft and ventilation. This elevator is all hydraulics.” He opened the gate, which allowed cool air to hit Brienne’s wet forehead. 

They stepped into a hidden world. Beyond a short flight of stairs, the large cavern stunned her speechless. The walls, carved out of jagged rock, reflected green paint towards the bottom. The rest of the walls reflected white. Male voices and sounds of clanking metal echoed far across the dozen meter high roof of solid rock. Along the cavern, large pipes traveled towards the top, and sectioned out into four, metal enclosed water wheels. Beside each wheel was an even larger generator. Her eyes smiled all around, completely ignoring Jaime and others while she stepped into one of the seven heavens. She owned this, in a way. Despite his name and credit, this was her purpose: to serve others and pay for it.

She walked to one of the large water wheels and placed her hand on the cold metal housing. It laid dormant, but she imagined the hum and power beneath the metal. She closed her eyes and remembered the drawings she studied while on board the ship. These were the largest wheel units ever attempted, made specifically for this power house. Each water wheel was capable of 2500 horsepower, and her heart quickened at the thought of their power. Its kinetic energy transformed into mechanical energy and the generators, her favorite out of all of these machines, gave that power to people.

“Each wheel weighs 45,000 kilograms,” Jaime said, behind her.

“Not including the water, I suppose?” Brienne said, now standing near the generator. She did not hear his response. When she glanced at him, he smirked and gave a faint nod. 

Still farther back, he stared with her, likely at the generator. They were revolving-armatures and were capable of delivering a three-phase current at 1000 volts. As heavy as the water wheel, they stood five meters high.

“Where is the switchboard?” She asked and cracked her knuckles. 

Jaime blinked. “Over—” He stumbled on his words. He shook his head and looked away. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

They stopped short of a lathe, stove, drill press, air compressor, hack saw, office, store room, forge and their own blacksmith shop. One could live here, and Brienne would live here happily, like living in a dream. They had lockers and bathrooms. Closest to the last generator was the switchboard. Brienne and Jaime looked at the large, white marble board across the wall. Temporary metal plates covered the wires. She hummed a song to herself.

Each knob and piece of metal were either of brass or bronze. Brienne counted eighteen panels, four for the generators, two for the exciters and twelve for the feeders. A sizable sign indicated 1000 amperes per conductor as the normal full load of current. Joints lapped and bolted with cables connected to the switchboard. She smiled at the number of circuit breakers—a safe choice. The wattmeters showed no activity, and her eyes followed the large wires along the edge of the cavern, where they climbed up the elevator shaft.

Brienne turned and caught Jaime’s expression: a frozen stare. She smiled. “This is simply amazing,” she said.

His stare continued. “You’re so different,” he whispered.

Eyes squinted, Brienne looked at him and asked, “From who?”

Jaime glanced away and pinched his ear. “From… everyone.”

Brienne’s gaze fell to the floor. He compared her to the first Mrs. Lannister, she could feel it. Mrs. Lannister possessed beauty, and Brienne possessed wealth.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, and his eyes scanned over the cavern.

“I love it. I could spend all day here.”

His jaw sharpened, and he looked at her through the tail of his eye. He whispered, “I wish I could, too.”

Brienne thought of the attic, how his childhood was locked away in a small place without a parent’s love or affection. Hurt never left his eyes. After a clear of his throat, he said, “Once operational, we will have two operators, one electrician and one oiler.” He tried to hide his pain, but Brienne knew him well enough to see through his illusions. 

“Do you…” She asked and stopped. Brienne took one step too far already, and his face furrowed in her direction, begging her to continue. Her toes curled inside her leather boots. If he lost his temper, at least she had her own means back to her dreadful residence, full of dead flies and moths. The mere possibility he poured himself into work to avoid his home gave her a hopeful anchoring point. “Do you hate Casterly Rock?”

“Why do you say that?” His brows tensed.

“You—” Brienne’s heart threatened to crawl up her throat and force herself quiet. “You grew up there, but, were you really alone? In the attic? All the time?”

Jaime closed his eyes, but his pain showed in the deep rise of his chest. His past bled into the rest of him, and a vein bulged against his neck while his chest stopped. She made him cross again, and she felt like a guilty student bringing up a forbidden topic in lecture.

He looked to the switchboard and breathed again. “Father was always traveling,” he said patiently. “Sometimes I traveled with him alone, but it was almost worse. I don’t hate Casterly Rock, although I know many do. I have many horrible memories of the place, but almost as many pleasant ones. We don’t choose where or how we are born, but it is up to us to make the most of the circumstance.”

This man, in his poor circumstances, married her for her wealth. Like Renly said, Brienne agreed to the marriage in order to improve her circumstances. What did she improve? She stood in one of the finest power houses in Westeros, an absolute modern marvel. Yet, she lived in squalor. Jaime disclosed his financial status before their agreement, but he neglected to explain his crumbling mansion. If she knew the staff and workers spoke different languages, it would not dissuade her from employment or residence, but it made her palms sweat at the idea of their mistreatment. None of it made sense.

“This place, compared to Casterly Rock…” Her eyes wandered and she said, “This place is far…”

“Better?”

She locked eyes with his. “How did you afford this?”

“I don’t take a salary.”

She frowned.

“When my father passed, I had a choice: fix Casterly Rock or create this dream. The cost of this dream far exceeded my expectations. Rents from tenants are directly invested into this project. ”

Brienne opened her mouth to ask about the worker’s salaries, but the electrician walked behind them and fussed with the switchboard. She did not know if he spoke Common Tongue, thus, she remained quiet.

“Well? Do you think I’ve gone too far? I would appreciate you allowing me into that mind of yours and let me know what you think. I suspect you want to know where your contributions will go. Every machine bolted into its permanent home, ready to operate. Transformers are in. Poles erected, wires hung. We only need to finish the substations in Lannisport and Casterly Rock with your financial help and brain power, if you can spare the latter. I would take you to see the Lannisport substation today, but I’m afraid we would waste precious time. I’ve spent years creating this project from the ground up. What do you think of it?”

She gazed around them again. These wires, covered and organized into straight lines, could provide power for the masses. Now that she saw his work for herself, she discovered his passion for the future sparked as equally as hers. Casterly Rock and his salary did not matter to him because he threw his home to the wind, wore old outfits and married again. In a way, marrying Brienne was a sacrifice. He could have married a beauty, and he chose wealth above all. Yet, he prioritized her opinion in this moment, and she took deliberative care with her choice of words.

She said, “I think this is a start to a brand new beginning.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've referenced a work titled _The Romance of Lust_ by anonymous (1873). I would describe the work as erotica and chock full of triggering acts. Victorian erotica is a trip and I only quote a paragraph in this chapter, but if you want to read the source—uhhh, good luck?

In her sleep, Brienne’s legs ached and moaned. She rolled her body to seek unreachable comfort. Every turn in the bed led to different and more vivid dreams. She dreamt she was at sea, rolling over waves while she sat on a wooden bench. The sun glistened on the bright ocean, almost too bright for one’s eyes. Dressed in a golden frock, she turned, and near the doorway to the cabins, Jaime stood in front of an unknown woman; her face, hair and likeness were shadowed by Jaime’s broad form. The woman was Mrs. Lannister, and Brienne turned away amid a heavy flush. A delightful pair of feminine and masculine laughs drowned in the wind behind her, followed by sharp and sinful gasps. Brienne did not want to intrude, nor look, and her tired legs clung against the bench beneath her seat. Their intimate moment surrounded her along with a thick mist of fog.

“Mrs. Lannister,” a male said.

Brienne winced and raised her hand over her brows, as if she could see through mist better than before. Her efforts failed, and she saw nothing.

“Mrs. Lannister,” he said again.

Golden locks of wavy hair flashed before her eyes. With a gasp, Brienne fell backwards, her legs falling into the air. She expected her entire body to crash on the deck, but another set of hands gripped and held her hips off the floor. “Mrs. Lannister,” Jaime said between her thighs. Brienne’s heart lurched out of her chest, harder when she felt his lips on the skin between her thighs, under her skirts. He held her closer, and she covered her mouth when she realized _she_ was Mrs. Lannister. He tasted her like the drawing from Yi Ti, unabashed and hungry. Even in her dream, as she realized she was dreaming, a strange pressure swelled at the base of her spine. The sudden release of pulses and elation startled Brienne awake from her dream as if she plunged into the sea.

Her heart pounded alongside the faint whisper of a pulse between her legs, but no man was buried between them. It was not sunny, or foggy; it was night, and she lay in bed with her hands gripped onto sheets. Nora barked far within the house.

Brienne whispered, “Jaime?” She reached over to his side of the bed, but empty sheets dragged against her fingertips.

Nora continued to bark, and Brienne leaned forward. Her thin nightgown sleeves caught along painful pricks of goosebumps along the length of her arm. A full moon provided enough light but not nearly enough for her to see well. Its light illuminated nothing more than half a meter past the window. Darkness forced minds to wander. Perhaps Jaime was hurt, or needed help. Nora, sweet Nora, barked her alarm, and Brienne wanted to help.

She slipped out of bed and turned to the nightstand. Her flashlight, the trusty old brass, rattled with a fresh battery inside, however, it remained dark when she flipped the switch. Brienne shook the flashlight and reset the switch. The lifeless flashlight weighed her hand. She resolved to strike matches and light several candles on a candelabra. Melted wax froze as it dripped along each candled finger. Her damp palm and fingers curled around the base… and she walked forward. Nora, closer, growled her warning.

The bedroom door, left ajar, creaked open on its own. Nora scurried to Brienne’s side, whirled and pointed her ears to the foyer.

Brienne hesitated forward, candle arm stretched in front of her. Jaime was not in the bathroom, and not a single candle burned except her own. Her feet, uncovered and bare, hit icy, wooden floors at the doorway. Nora trudged alongside Brienne.

“Jaime?” Brienne asked again. Her trembling voice, however, traveled farther than her sight. She heard no answer.

Through the open gallery, Brienne looked into the foyer from the second level. Moonlight glistened on falling autumn leaves through the large hole in the roof. Casterly Rock, without its bustling servants, made no sound except the occasional whispered tap of one dead leaf against another. One by one, leaves fell into a lake of autumn at the center of the foyer.

A door slammed closed. Brienne jerked her head towards the sound. Further, Nora’s distant barks rang down the hallway—a hallway Brienne never explored. Holding her rather poor torch forward, she investigated further. 

Nerves tingled from the tips of her ears to tips of her toes like a static charge. Nora’s barks were muffled through a closed door in the constricted hallway, its ornate details sharp and inhumane. Brienne smiled, for a moment, at the discovery Nora managed to trap herself in another room. Brienne’s free hand turned the door handle, and Nora was not inside. Inside was a closet with shelves and a painting far in the back. Nora appeared to Brienne’s right, down the hallway, ears centered and alert. Brienne swallowed and frowned.

Curtains flailed at the end of the long hallway, and a draft rushed towards her. The closet door slammed shut. Its crash assaulted her ears, and Nora trotted to sniff the door. Brienne hesitated but chose to open the door again. She reached inside the darkness and pulled out an oil painting of four people. Painted with the same strokes and hues to the art in the drawing room, Brienne stared at Jaime’s mother, the tallest figure who stood behind three children. All of them dressed well enough to attend a sept service. Brienne found child Jaime in an instant—his hair trimmed short, eyebrows arched and large green eyes. He stood a hair taller than Cersei, who dressed in a small emerald gown. Either the painter or time gave her an edge of maturity, and she looked to be of three-and-ten; she was a blossoming young woman with hints of curves. Her hair braided into the back and she placed her hand against her mother’s arm. The mother’s other arm rested on the shoulder of an unknown shorter child. His blond hair poorly covered his jutting forehead. He had the chest and face of a seven year old child, but his limbs and legs appeared half his age. No one smiled, and everyone faced forward. Brienne frowned harder than the faces she gazed over. Cersei said their mother died at birth. Whose birth? This unknown child’s identity haunted her.

Nora barked down the hall. At this rate, Nora would wake the entire house. Brienne doubted Nora’s stress, as there was no perceived danger. She returned the painting to its shelf in the closet and closed the door. She walked deeper into the house, into unknown darkness. Flames whistled at the turn of corners, and corridors tricked her into an unfamiliar maze. Crackled, dark wallpaper curled into peels, and she stood at the junction of three hallways. Moonlight bled through cobwebs on the window behind her. Poorly cared for, the window cracked open at its joints. From this side of the house, she heard the sea... a dull, persistent sound.

Nails clicked on wooden floors at the end of a dead end hallway. Brienne whispered, “Nora!” 

She did not come. Brienne thrust her candles forward and searched for the dog. Her lack of plan to persuade the dog to follow her back to her room gave her little hope. Nightgowns, without pockets or any sense of usefulness, did not allow her to carry dog treats. She resolved to create her own leash, perhaps from the curtains or from inside one of the dozen closed doors she passed.

Nora whined as Brienne approached the end of the hall. Dust, not swept in weeks, lingered in the air and along the rugs. Staleness surrounded her. The sea whispered louder, and thick curtains suffocated the window of its light. Nothing about the window made for a good leash, thus, Brienne hesitated, but knocked gently on the door closest to the window. Distant moans, from far in the house, startled her frozen. As soon as the sounds started, they stopped. Both Nora and Brienne looked for the source, but only Nora shrunk backwards against the panel behind her. A thump rattled at the end of the hall. Nora’s tail curled under her belly and her back huddled in a corner. Nora observed something Brienne could not. Like Nora, Brienne stepped back. She held her light forward. Her broadened shoulders braced for a fight, but nothing approached—nothing she could see. With her tall stature and clenched fist, she could fight or resist a person. How could she fight a ghost? Her heart winced because she could not win against a spirit. Ghosts, if real, never died. 

A flash bolted forward, Brienne’s candlelight barely able to show Nora’s sable hair running down the hallway. Lungs heavy, Brienne trudged to catch the runaway dog. Doorways blurred beside her and her steps pounded hollow thuds as she walked.

The sight of a figure, in the moonlight, startled Brienne to the point of sudden suffocation. She felt like she fell one hundred meters, and her heart scrambled to save a lost cause. Ghosts were real, and she would not live to tell a soul about it. She would become a ghost herself and haunt the world.

The figure, in her own nightgown, turned and her face glared in candlelight. It was Cersei. Brienne gasped for air and leaned her back against the wall behind her. While she breathed, they stared at one another before speaking. Cersei said nothing, and heat spread over Brienne’s cheeks at the expression of Cersei, who was cold and plain. Brienne felt as if she trespassed, or as if Cersei was a warden and Brienne was a prisoner.

“Are you lost?” Cersei asked.

Brienne tried not to quake, but her shivering hand vibrated the flames and her breath quivered. She looked away, unable to handle Cersei’s furrowed glare. “I’m looking for Jaime.”

“He’s probably working.” Cersei sounded more calm than she appeared. Similarly to Jaime, her jaw pointed into a fit of suppressed annoyance. “He finds it hard to sleep at night. I would have hoped he told you.”

“The library sounded empty—”

“Did you go in there?”

“No.”

“Try there next time. And if he’s not there, he’s probably working somewhere else.”

Nora panted in the hallway. Brienne considered explaining her reasons for exploring, but thought it would make her appear more foolish than she already felt.

Cersei asked, “Did you go into any of these rooms?”

“No, I—” Brienne paused. She frowned and held the light to the side, allowing her to see Cersei’s face. “What are these rooms?”

In a quiet and lingering gaze, Cersei waited to respond. Her lips twitched in a small smile, followed by an intense and unmistakable grimace. “Mostly guest rooms,” she said, “except the last one, on the left.”

Brienne followed Cersei’s gaze down the hallway.

Cersei scowled and said, “That room was Mrs. Lannister’s room. It has the best view of the entire estate.” A hint louder, she asked, “I assume you want to see it?”

“No, not at all—” Brienne forgot how to speak. She held her candelabra closer as she felt herself grow smaller and smaller. She whispered, “I was only looking for a leash for Nora.”

“The dog knows her way around this house, enough not to get herself in trouble. She’s been here longer than you. You should find your way back to bed.”

Brienne nodded and walked forward.

“Not that way,” Cersei said and pointed down the other hallway, the one Brienne had not explored, and said, “Take a right and you’ll see the foyer and entrance to the house.”

With a deep breath, Brienne changed directions. Nora refused to budge and Brienne felt Cersei’s heavy gaze watching them both. Brienne swallowed and asked, “Would you… like a candle?”

“I know my place far better around here than anyone else,” Cersei said, voice cold and uninterested. “Good night.” 

She did, Brienne was sure. Cersei grew up here, and Brienne had scarcely seen a handful of rooms on the first two floors. No one ever alerted her to the danger, although the gaping hole in the middle of the house proved perilous enough. History soaked through the house’s wooden bones so deeply, she thought it near impossible to not step into more holes or traps. Her fleeting bravery had tricked her into an ill-thought adventure, and worse, Cersei had discovered her. This scornful outcome hurt more than ghosts.

Nora followed Brienne down the remainder of the larger hallway, under curved spokes of wood. If Brienne were a few centimeters taller or veered too far in either direction, points sharper than needles would pierce her. This house assaulted her from every angle, and to see the foyer when she turned the corner did not bring relief… it filled her chest with turbulent air.

Feminine, graceful laughs reverberated from downstairs. Is that what Mrs. Lannister sounded like: a liquid note of harmony through damp air? Jaime’s mother _and_ Mrs. Lannister watched over her through that very hole in the roof. They watched every little move Brienne made. Perhaps they saw her dream. She straightened her back despite her temptation to curl into a ball and hide away. She did not believe in ghosts simply because of science… She could not stand the power of their judgement. Other than Nora, the only close individual in this world without judgement towards her was, she hoped, the man who brought her here.

Brienne pressed on and walked to the doorway of her room. The moonlight trickled into the room, and it revealed no Jaime. No rippling water or faucets filled the bathroom either; but the thought of walking in on him in the clawfoot bathtub flushed her neck and cheeks. She rolled her head and turned, accepting the fact she preferred silent company more than the perceived safety of her oppressive room. 

She would find Jaime in the library, and they would talk of engineering. He would clear her mind and calm her. They would smile, similarly to the subtle grins they shared at Hura Falls earlier that day. Brienne would laugh, like they both chuckled on the ride down in his car, wind dancing in their hairs. When Jaime would stare at his notes so passionately, she would stare at him, listening to him meander through topic after topic. His very voice or the clear of his throat made her throat tighten.

Candelabra ahead of her, Brienne tip-toed down the stairs. She avoided the beamed moonlight on the foyer floor, but one of her bare feet squashed a dead leaf. No one laughed, and no one saw. She dragged her shoulder against the paneling while she entered the drawing room. The large uncurtained windows illuminated enough to see the entire room, still as a pencil sketch. Strained eyes towards the library, Brienne saw no candle and no one there. Still, she walked forward and climbed the creaking steps.

A singular candle rested in a pool of semi-solid wax. Someone was recently here. Brienne set her candelabra on the table. Their sketches and notes from tea, earlier that day, had been stored away. Jaime’s wooden ruler stuck out through a book the size of Brienne’s hand. She did not know he evaded sleep to read literature.

Brienne’s fingers traced over the nameless book, as thick as her wrist. No text decorated its spine either. Perhaps the rubbed signs of use drowned out its title. She lowered her head and peeked at the edges, seeing no illustration. Her behavior, timid and suspicious, made her feel like a foolish child. Brienne pulled the book towards her and opened to its bookmarked page. She placed the ruler on the side.

_I had been giving short thrusts more to stimulate her passions than to alleviate my own; and as she was totally unaware of what was going to happen, she widened her thighs and heaved up her bottom, expanding her vagina in the act. I gathered my strength together, and as my cock was standing as stiff as iron, I suddenly drove it forward, and felt that I broke through something, and gained two inches more insertion at least._

She gasped and snapped the book closed. Her hand jolted back as if the book might bite her. This was anything but engineering—more textbook of sex than math. Brienne’s eyes closed. Again, she trespassed into someone else’s forbidden exploits, yet, her eyes wanted to continue. No one saw her. Such words provided every detail with such vivid imagery. Brienne flushed like an unintended voyeur, but it was not her first experience with the topic of sex. Renly, Loras and Olenna discussed sex in regards to overpopulation. Renly confided his shame in Brienne once, about his sexual acts. He withheld specific details, but she knew septs and repressed people thought him deviant. 

This erotica, however plain in its dull, brown bindings, filled its pages with immense color. To find this novel deviant might have been no different than labeling Renly with the same title. Did Jaime read this? She hardly considered him a religious or an exceptionally moral person, and he never once touched her. This book allowed the mind to touch and feel what the body could not. Perhaps she never would know what it felt like to have a warm hand on her skin, or to widen her thighs for... She found no interest in touching herself, especially when she thought of discovery embarrassed her. Someone could discover her now... 

Brienne opened her eyes, and they widened when she saw the ruler off to the side. She lost the bookmark’s place. She flipped the book open and scanned for the original page, only to see more of the same: clitoris, erections… Brienne closed the book. She would never find the original page unless she read all night. Her eyes and heart encouraged the thought, both racing for more words, but the crippling fear of discovery stopped her. She left the book, and its lost ruler, on the table. She did not find Jaime, but she found more than enough to have her forget about ghosts.

Nora waited at the bottom of the small stairs from the library, and Brienne offered an apologetic smile. The two of them walked through the drawing room. Flames trickled down to the base of each candle, and she would not have more than an hour left of light. She crossed into the foyer and stopped when she heard a large gasp in the kitchen.

“Issi mērī arlī,” a young woman said, but Brienne did not see her.

Brienne leaned closer to the kitchen. Another woman said, “Pār ziry māstan lenton.”

Those words, although she did not understand their exact meaning, she understood their tone well enough. Those were words of gossip. Judgement threaded between each syllable, and both of them let out “tsks.” Brienne’s chest caved in as she turned, her neck and cheeks growing hotter with every pulse of her heart.

Jaime was still not in their bedroom. Brienne blew out the candles, one by one, and smoke curled in the crawling moonlight. Nora curled on her favorite rug, while Brienne climbed into bed and under covers. She forced her eyes closed, and after a hundred or so deep breaths, she dreamt she was a butterfly, flitting and fluttering around. She did as she pleased, by herself and floated over white begonias so fragrant, she forgot she was Brienne. When she awoke again with pain in her chest, solid and alone in bed, she wished she was the butterfly... dreaming she was Brienne.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Warning for racism and slurs in this chapter.

Jaime planned to drive Brienne to Lannisport the next day to check the substation. After a half eaten breakfast of crumbled scones, she slipped by the library to grab a few sketches Jaime asked for. She no longer saw the book and the ruler from the night before. On the table, the candle froze solid in its own wax and looked to be the same height as hours before. Brienne retrieved substation sketches from a pullout drawer and met Jaime and Cersei at the front doors.

“Would you like to join us?” Jaime asked his sister.

“No,” Cersei said, “Thank you, though.” Her voice braided beautifully like her hair of beaten gold. She sounded nothing like the tight-faced woman Brienne encountered in the corridor the night before. Her hands folded neatly in front of her teal gown.

Brienne stepped forward, dressed in her soft pink gown she wore on her arrival to Casterly Rock. The flowers had long wilted and crushed as easily as the swept leaves of the foyer floor. She smiled at the servants with their brooms, and after a several second pause, they smiled back.

“We will be back in time for tea,” Jaime said and slipped his black silk hat onto his head. His frock coat fit him well, much like it likely fit him a decade ago. The collar still brushed against the edge of his jaw, a distracting aspect of his face Brienne forced herself to ignore.

On the ride to Lannisport, under gray sky, Jaime diverted their path multiple times to show Brienne the transmission poles swooping from the crags and into the valley. As he said before, aluminum wires hung between wooden posts. Brienne sat with her gloved hands folded in her lap, nodding and smiling whenever he glanced over to see her reaction. Both the signs of progress and his bright smile made her want to hum a song. She welcomed his sudden happiness, as it boosted her own. Perhaps the fresh air affected his mood because almost any scent beyond the moldy Casterly Rock smelled like a good perfume. Or maybe the years of planning swelled to a unyielding suspense, and he desperately wanted to see his power house run.

He wheeled his car in and out of the forest and valleys. Brienne kept quiet. Her mind consumed thoughts of him reading suggestive and detailed novels. A servant could not have read the book, as she assumed they did not read Common Tongue. Either Cersei or Jaime read that book and upon such realization of two possibilities, she did not want to know the true answer. Jaime said he did not need love. Her face wrinkled into a soft frown so he could not see her. She did not know what thought hurt her more: his change of heart or his lie. Was she as good of a lover as a book?

They spent the rest of their morning in and out of the substation. She met another handful of men from Sothoryos, Essos and beyond. A few of them openly gasped when she slipped off her gloves and tinkered with transformers. Numbers did not confuse her like ghosts or affection, and she poured herself into calculations on her notepad. Jaime’s transformers needed safety checks and improvements, all spotted within thirty minutes of Brienne’s arrival. Jaime chose not to be cross at her suggestions, and he translated the instructions to two workers.

Burned coal and stewed fire in the temporary generators gave everyone a thin layer of sweat. Brienne, in more clothing than anyone else, wiped her forehead with her arm a dozen times throughout the morning. She wished she wore bloomers, but the thought of Lannisport’s judging eyes sounded worse than a little sweat. More than trousers or bloomers, she wanted to bring power to this town _and_ be recognized for her work. 

“Are you ready for a meal?” Jaime asked. He stood to the left of Brienne while she hunched over a transformer. 

Her hands, now dirty, held onto the edge of steel. She poked her head halfway up and discovered Jaime smirked down at her. She asked, “They haven’t eaten yet, have they?”

“You’ve been working continuously since we arrived. They take breaks in shifts and eat as they please. Do you know how employment works?” His words might have been spiteful, but she heard amusement in his voice.

She licked her dry lips from hours of heated breaths and straightened her posture. A wipe of her hands with a wet cloth mostly cleaned them. His eyes fluttered to her chest. Glancing down, she saw a smudge slashed across the flap of fabric across the top of her dress. His hand reached out, only to stop and hold still in front of her. Seconds slowed and her heart quickened, but he returned his hand to his side.

“I have a scarf in my car,” he said. His abrupt turn left her stunned.

He came back with a red scarf, and the fabric smelled older than Casterly Rock. Propriety whispered for her to take the scarf, but her heart knew this belonged to another woman, perhaps Mrs. Lannister. Jaime’s hand clenched into the smooth silk and held it out for her to accept it. His face increasingly tightened with every moment of hesitation. She did not want to offend him, and after several seconds, she knew wearing the scarf would be less offensive than refusing it altogether. Brienne cared little about appearing dirty because people enjoyed gawking their eyes at her height regardless of what covered her. She took the scarf and Jaime turned, mentioning something about fish. Her feet stumbled to follow him as she wrapped the foreign scarf around her neck, its fringed edges draped across her scandalous mark.

By some sort of fate, they walked no more than a dozen meters into Lannisport’s wiring roads before Jaime saw Addam, Darlessa and Missandei across the street. Huddled on the deck outside of a local bank, they bowed and curtsied their greetings while horse drawn carriages and cars rolled down cobbled streets.

Addam discussed his tenants with Jaime in a joyful mood, and Darlessa walked alongside them. Missandei, her head slightly down, walked behind them with her hands folded on her belly. She wore a simple yellow frock, and her form filled it beautifully. She wore deep red jewelry, like drops of cherries dangling from her ears. They passed by several advertisements for fashion. One illustrated woman after another, they all posed in elegant positions and flaunted their colorful frocks against their colorless skin. A dab of red adorned ears of an illustrated woman, along with her pale yellow frock—exactly like Missandei’s attire. None of these advertisements looked like Brienne, stocky or freckled. Even more so, these models looked even less like Missandei.

They walked, and Brienne’s eyes continued to observe the posted advertisements and flyers. The Lannister name caught her eye and she slowed to read headlines saying, “Lannister’s Folly.” The summary stated Hura Falls ran dry in the summer and waterpower had never worked—all false claims and borderline slanderous. Jaime was not without his doubters, and Brienne glanced at him while he smiled at Addam. As Jaime said months ago, he ignored gossip, and she wanted to do the same. 

Beside Missandei, Brienne asked, “Have you eaten?”

Missandei’s eyes lifted to look at Brienne.

From ahead, Addam asked, “Eel pies, everyone? There’s a great stand around the corner.”

Eel pies were a new dish to try, but Brienne could not find any reason to not try them. She nodded, although Addam never turned to see it.

“They’re very good,” Missandei said, her voice smooth and feminine. “The pies, I mean. They always dab a bit of butter on the pastry.”

“You’ve had it before?” Brienne asked.

“Many times. It’s one of my favorite childhood memories.” Missandei’s gave a pleasant smile.

“You grew up here, in Lannisport?”

After a swallow and look forward, Missandei quieted and said, “I was born here.”

“It’s a city of beauty. Much more spacious and welcoming than King’s Landing.”

The five of them rounded a corner and Missandei pulled at the delicate cream lace on her sleeve. She erupted into a sudden smile and whispered, “I’ve also lived in Naath.”

Brienne slowed her pace, allowing Jaime, Addam and Darlessa to walk farther ahead. She whispered, “Where is Naath?”

“An island in the Summer Sea. Your silk scarf likely comes from there. A jungle, but more spacious than this. Trees taller than the tallest building here. If you climb high enough, you can see the water from either side. I’ve never climbed high enough.” 

Brienne offered a grin but did not know what to say. The topic of Missandei’s lineage made her pause. Missandei carried the Marbrand name and lived in Naath where Brienne presumed the Marbrand’s owned a plantation. Brienne and Missandei stopped a meter behind their companions and Brienne said with a smile, “It sounds beautiful.”

“It is.” Missandei beamed like a woman lost in a blissful daydream. When Addam stepped towards the food stand counter, Missandei took a step back and looked into the street. On the other side, a group of people huddled under the awning of a hotel. A few men looked over and tapped the points of their umbrellas on the street. One of them whistled. 

“A dozen eel pies for us, young man.” Addam handed over coins and gestured everyone to take a couple pies, each the size of an open palm.

Brienne took two and Missandei hesitated behind her. When Missandei’s hand reached forward, the cook in the back said, “Aye, no bananas here.”

With squinted eyes, Brienne stared into the stand, but the cook averted his eyes away. Brienne never asked for bananas and neither did Addam. Jaime, engaged in thick conversation with Addam, took three pies and continued down the walkway. Brienne turned and sank her teeth into the crunchy and warm pie, full of salt, butter and flesh. 

Missandei walked beside her, closer to the street, both pies stacked in her right hand. Her throat tightened.

“Monkey,” the man in the stand whispered under his breath.

Brienne half-turned, brows low, but Missandei’s free hand grabbed Brienne’s arm. 

“Stop,” Missandei whispered, “They’ll only cause more trouble. I prefer to ignore them. I learned on Naath to be peaceful despite their intentions.”

Addam began crossing the street, and like horses, everyone followed. Darlessa glanced back and Missandei dropped her arm, forcing a smile. Brienne did not smile when Darlessa faced forward and Brienne whispered, “If my hands weren’t limited by these I would throw them a few good punches. See if they say those words again.” 

Missandei managed a small giggle and swallowed a bite. “That would be a sight to see, but I have been called names my entire life, even in Naath.” Her eyes lowered to her white gloves, and her walking slowed. When she looked up, consumed by a faint frown, Missandei said, “Half from Westeros and half from Naath makes it hard to belong in either.”

Both of them stopped halfway across the streets. “Where do you want to be?” Brienne whispered.

“I want to be here. I wish everyone else wanted me to be here, too.”

Brienne’s heart wept while Missandei forced a smile and gazed at her pies. Having a sense of belonging warmed the soul, and only a few days of being thrust into a semi-foreign world made Brienne say words she never said and act in ways she never behaved. She could not imagine an entire lifetime of shunning, not like this. Missandei, while beautiful and accomplished, looked nothing like Westeros high society, and similarly to Brienne, people enjoyed tormenting her for her appearance. She saw Missandei as a potential friend, one of the few people who genuinely smiled at her without snickers or fright. She wanted Missandei to belong. “Shall we?” Brienne asked, her heart wild with possibility. She threw her pies into the gutter like toy disks. 

Missandei gasped and grinned. Her fingers squeezed the pastry in her palm, and in a sudden release, she dropped her pies onto the street below them. They fell with an obscene squish. 

“You threw out perfectly good pie! What are you doing?” Jaime said. 

Missandei snapped her eyes away and hurried her pace to walk alongside Addam and Darlessa. 

Brienne remained still and raised her chin while Jaime approached her. “Tainted meat.” She lumbered past him.

He closed his mouth and scrambled to follow her. “Have mine.”

“No.” Brienne stepped onto the wooden deck, not caring if her dress dragged along the faint stream of mud along the side of the street.

“You stubborn woman,” Jaime said, a hair above a whisper. “Sometimes I wonder where I found you. Other times I wonder how you graduated.”

Brienne whispered no longer. “And I wonder, at least daily, why you still have that tongue of yours.”

“It’s put to good use, I can assure you. Yours is gaining skill quite rapidly, and I’m afraid I must take credit.”

“You can take credit for my frown, and that is all. Your skills in protection and awareness are lacking dreadfully.”

“Look at you! You need protection? From whom?”

Brienne whirled to face him. “Her, protect her,” she whispered in a furious rush. “She’s being harassed.”

Jaime clenched his jaw and looked away. His fingers tapped against his trousers. No, he would not. He hired dozens of victims to control. Brienne doubted he paid his employees a single coin beyond food and shelter. The sickening reality slapped her across the face, as other than her skin color and background, he employed her without a wage. She ate his food, slept in his bed… 

“Addam,” Jaime called out.

Addam, Darlessa and Missandei paused their walking a five meters ahead, all turned. Jaime said, “I daresay, it will rain while we are at the beach. Anything under a roof we can enjoy without an appointment or—”

“Cafe?” Darlessa asked.

Addam gave a thin smile.

“A boutique,” Darlessa said.

Addam touched his pockets and blushed.

“A seance!” Darlessa burst out and bounced. Missandei mirrored her excitement and lifted to the tip of her toes.

Jaime pinched his ear enough to leave it red. He stared down the street and feigned a smile.

“Come on,” Brienne said. “You don’t believe in spirits, do you?”

“Very well,” Jaime said, walking forward.

They entered a thin hallway around noon, and their shoes tapped against patterned wooden floors. Windows in the doorway illuminated enough of the walls to reveal a dark green and golden finish. Addam and Jaime removed their outer coats and hats to hang them near the door. Missandei huddled closer to Brienne as her eyes roamed over the ceiling. 

“This will be fun,” Brienne said, while Addam asked the medium for availability. She was young, as most seance women were, not more than six-and-ten years of age. A soft face, with dark and thick eyebrows, she wore a white linen dress with a tight corseted form.

“It smells like cinnamon,” Missandei whispered.

Brienne nodded and when Missandei looped her arm through Brienne’s, she held back a growing smile. Missandei’s touch comforted Brienne, and it had been so long since she shared a friendly embrace or moment with anyone.

“Come on then,” Addam said, “in this room.”

Jaime bickered with Addam about payment, but the women shuffled into a dark room the size of Jaime’s ensuite bathroom. One kerosene lamp in the middle of the table showed enough chairs for six people. The woman, who did not give her name, pulled an extra chair out from under the table and said, “Take a seat next to your partner. Remove gloves and jewelry.”

Addam seated first, followed by Darlessa on his left and Missandei on his right. Between Missandei and Jaime, Brienne sat on an old wooden chair. Her long legs tucked and curved to the right. The topic of hosting a ball returned, and Jaime’s interest towards Addam wilted. Darlessa suggested the Marbrands host their own ball as she sat between Addam and Jaime. The women pulled off their gloves and the men removed their jewelry while the seance woman allowed them to place items on a simple silver tray.

Brienne gazed around, content to let others speak about topics she cared little for. A sheer curtain hung over an open doorway and led into an adjuring room. Dozens of framed photographs lined the walls. Her eyesight adjusted well enough to focus on their black and white shades. Families, couples and animals were in every photograph. Brienne wondered if all of them passed on. While Brienne put little stock in the reality of seances, she recognized they still gave people a sense of love beyond death. Mediums pleased the mind to think lost loved ones returned for even a moment. 

“I speak for the dead,” the medium said. “A medium for the undying. My hands and my mouth will not be my own. They will speak to you through the dead’s will.”

As young as she was, her mature and confident voice silenced everyone. She took a moment to look over everyone, sitting in the warm glow of the lamp. This woman worked alone, it seemed. Brienne held back a smile.

“Join hands,” the medium said.

Everyone spread their hands flat against the table. Missandei’s small hand stretched beside Brienne’s as their pinkies touched. Jaime’s left hand touched Brienne’s, his hand a similar size to her own: large and capable. She never knew the depth of sensitivity in her pinky finger until this moment. Her most fragile finger, thought as a rather useless appendage, brushed against his, and the fraction of a touch stiffened her entire body. Now, her mind focused on nothing but her pinky as if it were a treasure.

The medium leaned over the table between Darlessa and Addam and turned the knob of the lamp to closed. “Spirits will walk through this room. Give them a moment to roam free.” She retreated to behind the curtain and into another room while darkness slowly crept in.

Brienne’s eyes struggled to see. She saw nothing but all consuming black. From across the table, Addam chuckled to himself. Darlessa let out a repressed squeal. Brienne remained quiet, although her heart quivered. 

Jaime’s chair creaked and his pinky moved, not even a millimeter forward, but she felt every bit of change. He leaned closer to her, his unmistakable taunting voice whispered against her ear, “This place would not work as well with power, don’t you agree?”

“Would you st—” Brienne whispered, but stopped the moment her cheek brushed against his. He pulled back, but the lingering sensation of his warm skin left her stomach in knots. This was the closest she would ever get to touching him, and she was not sure if she should weep or smile. Perhaps both. She expected him to draw away his pinky, but he did not. Her heavy chest tried its best to breathe through the constricting corset. Had it always been this tight? Pulses pounded against the corset’s wire frame. The air shifted into a cold atmosphere, too cold and too tense to breathe normally. Brienne’s breaths shallowed as an invisible presence filled the room.

A drum boomed. An eerie “ahhhhh” came from behind the curtain. Soon after, a smaller kerosene lamp floated a meter off the ground. Brienne narrowed her focus and leaned a hair closer over the table.

The medium, or spirit, pulled the curtain aside, its light dangling from the left pinky. A sheer sheet draped over her face. She no longer wore a corset, and her breasts spilled freely underneath her white dress. Addam turned his head to gaze at her, and she lunged forward without warning. Everyone gasped, except Addam, who chuckled to himself. The medium raised the kerosene lamp high above her head and slammed it on the table in front of Addam. Her voice, completely dark and scratchy, said, “It's you I came to see, my boy.”

Addam fell silent.

“You have not fulfilled your duty,” the medium said, masculine and deep. The lamp gave enough light to see the outline of everyone’s face, and all eyes focused on Addam. His throat bobbed and his chin shadowed up his face.

“This is not a game. It has _never_ been a game. You waste away our hard earned progress and think yourself useful.” Her hand reached for his neck and lifted his chin. She choked him, lightly enough to let him breathe, but his eyes and lips trembled. “Work like the rest of us, you soft hearted cunt.”

“Seven,” Darlessa muttered.

The medium stepped back, halfway into darkness, and she covered her mouth. In a sudden burst, she opened her mouth and heaved over. A gauze-like substance projected from between her lips like worms crawling out of drenched soil. In the shadow, it appeared white and with every dozen centimeters it darkened. The last of it fell out with a gagged noise and all five seated at the table froze in trembling patience.

She spoke again, in a softer voice, “J—J—J”

Jaime’s hand tensed against Brienne’s.

“Jeyne?” Darlessa asked and glanced at everyone else. “A grandmother from both of our families.”

Face forward, the medium lowered herself to Darlessa’s level. Through the sheer sheet, she pouted. Both of her hands reached for Darlessa, but when Darlessa flinched, the medium said in a feminine voice, “Shh, shh, it is me, Jeyne.”

Darlessa let out a quivered breath and blinked her smiling eyes. 

The medium’s hand continued towards Darlessa’s face, cupping her cheeks. “I daresay, we should spend more time with you,” she said. Her fingers toyed with a strand of Darlessa’s hair. “You must follow your plans, every last one of them. When someone asks for a plan of their own, live in their minds for a moment, and if you would enjoy it, you must support them in any way you can.” 

Darlessa nodded, her eyes welled and heavy.

“I love you, dear child. You have never disappointed me.”

The two of them closed their eyes. Brienne squeezed her thighs closer together to release energy, but it relieved nothing. She jolted when the medium’s eyes flashed open and stared across the table. They landed on Missandei. The medium straightened her posture and walked around the table, never taking her eyes off of Missandei.

“Emā ñuha irudy,” the medium said, low and deep.

Missandei, brave as a lion, turned her head. “Skoros irudy?”

“Aōha ondos.”

Missandei looked at her hands.

“Tala… Vestras ao sagon pirta. Iksā vok. Nyke mīsagon ao. Va moriot. Avy jorrāelan.”

Face half-frowning, whether pain or grief, Missandei returned her eyes to the medium. She whispered, “Avy jorrāelan.”

The medium closed her eyes and breathed in a full breath. She stepped closer to Brienne, whose heart hid away in her body for fear of what might happen. Her eyes, however, could not look away. When the medium placed a soft hand on Brienne’s shoulder, the medium jerked back and yelped. Through sharp breath, Brienne waited for the medium to speak, either truth or lies, it did not matter. Silence stung more. The medium’s eyes winced, and her hand held the left side of her head as if it hurt. Brienne leaned a hair closer. Sharp nails dug into the medium’s temple, almost drawing blood. Her father suffered head injuries at the factory.

Eyes open, the medium grabbed her own neck. Her jaw twisted back and forth, struggling to speak. Brienne swallowed and gave the person a faint nod.

Her voice, the sound of a skeleton, muttered, “Beware of the moon.”

Brienne creased her forehead.

The medium, or ghost, or her father, insisted again, “Beware of the moon.” Their faces drew closer, a sense of urgency swirled between them. On Brienne’s right hand, Jaime’s pinky crossed over hers and she stilled.

“Beware of the moon,” the voice said.

These words made little sense to her. Brienne’s eyes followed as the medium backed away, still in her expression of complete agony. When their eyes broke, Brienne closed her own and drowned in her thoughts. Jaime’s finger returned to her side, and she felt it press into the table. He was next, they all knew it. Brienne did not care. She wanted to run, she wanted to demand why the medium only gave her four words when everyone else received more. If her father had a chance to speak with her, he would have said more.

“I’ve missed you,” the medium said, now between Brienne and Jaime. Her voice, no longer strained, sang like a melody. Brienne’s eyes breathed open to view his visiting spirit. Jaime, in the warm glow of the dim lamp, paled while he stared ahead.

“Look at me, darling,” the woman said.

Brienne’s heart cracked open. Jaime glared ahead at Addam, who averted his eyes away. It now made sense to Brienne why Jaime detested the idea of a seance.

“You replaced me,” she said.

Brienne found it difficult to swallow. As fragile as a bulb, she shattered and winced. 

Steadfast, Jaime did not move. 

The medium reached out for him, and Brienne’s eyes stared even when the hand stopped.

“Give me your hand,” the medium asked. Jaime ignored her, but she did not look at him; she looked at Brienne.

Squeezing her toes into an intense curl, Brienne hesitated. Eyes persistent, the possessed medium waited. This was Mrs. Lannister, the woman Brienne trespassed on. A strange sense of foreboding overcame Brienne. Jaime’s aversion, a form of vulnerability, made her consider declining the request. No one would want their previous lover to quarrel over another. Mrs. Lannister still captured Jaime’s heart… Brienne could feel it. How could he not love a beautiful and talented young woman? She would never grow old in his mind. She would always remain young in his memory.

The hand pressed closer. If this spirit truly saw everything, she knew there was nothing between Jaime and Brienne’s marriage: no love, no lust. Brienne had nothing to fear. A turn of her palm, Brienne slowly lifted her hand. The medium’s hand cupped under hers, small and warm. When she pulled the hand gently and tilted it towards the light, examining it, Brienne bit into her lip.

“My dearest,” the medium said, speaking to Jaime, who closed his eyes. “She and I will soon be one and the same. You know this. Why do you not tell her? You can refuse to see.” The medium dragged Brienne’s hand over to their right, underneath hers. “But you cannot refuse to feel.”

Brienne let the woman’s gentle hand guide hers to the right, directly towards Jaime. A feather could have knocked Brienne over, but the panic of Addam, Darlessa or the spirit disapproving of her rudeness forced Brienne to be rather compliant. She thought of her own hand as modeling clay, perhaps not her own, until the moment the edge of her fingers touched Jaime’s cheeks. An unknown power flowed through her, much like the invisible power of electricity. She could not see it, or describe it; she felt it. Jaime, eyes shut, remained still. The edge of his exhale whirled over Brienne’s thumb. 

The medium’s hand crawled down, guiding Brienne’s hand along with it in lingered pulls. Only the tips of Brienne’s fingers, large as they were, dragged over Jaime’s neck. She never knew the potential energy of touch. Her fingertips tingled. Her eyes gawked. Her legs stiffened. His collar caught on her middle finger before it bounced back to standing as her hand descended to the top of his chest, which radiated heat. She held her hand lightly over him until the medium pressed Brienne’s hand flat over his heart, pounding faster than her own.

“Your heart is full,” the medium whispered. She pulled her hand away, but Brienne’s remained on Jaime’s vest, his heart. Her arm shook like jelly. The look of her hand, so singularly placed on Jaime’s heart, gave her a fever of goosebumps. This would be the closest she would ever reach it. All five of her senses blared. 

Jaime’s hand, a warm spark of its own, curled around hers and lifted her hand off his chest. His hand cradled hers, forearm brushed against forearm. Through the tail of his eye, he looked at her and she avoided his gaze. The medium retrieved her dim lamp and withdrew to her curtained area. Darkness returned while Brienne pulled her hand away from his—the friction of skin enough to arch her back.

She miscalculated. Renly was not the last man to claim her heart, however small a corner he captured. If touch gave her this rush, she wanted more, but she did not know where to find it. Jaime’s heart, as the medium said, was full. Brienne’s was empty; her heart was a circuit without power. Without love, she feared she would wilt and wither away like autumn leaves.


	10. Chapter 10

Cersei, in her stiff teal gown, prepared tea for Brienne in the library. Behind her, Maevor bit his lip while he arrived carrying a dozen cakes. Afternoon light bathed the rug below their feet, and Nora curled next to Jaime, who sat at his desk. He leaned over his calculations, engrossed in his slide rule rather than conversation. The fire contributed more noise than anyone, and Brienne preferred the verbal silence while she sat in the corner, sketch resting on her lap. She wore a blue frock, pale and simple, but comfortable.

“Jaime?” Cersei asked, hovering over the tea tray. Jaime’s focus on his slide rule continued, but Cersei waited, kettle in hand.

Brienne stopped the dull scratch of pencil on her paper.

“Tea?” Cersei asked, more quiet than normal. 

Jaime drew in a deep breath and glanced at his sister through creased brows, but the tension released immediately into a thin smile. “No.” 

Below the library, in the drawing room, Valon, Maevor and other servants bustled about like they were about to miss a train. Casterly Rock expected a guest.

After the seance, Brienne remembered Addam and Jaime arguing whether ghosts wore corsets. Addam said it was impossible for a spirit to wear a corset, and Jaime implied his doubt in the medium’s process. Women were still women if they did not wear a corset. To bypass their argument, Missandei asked Brienne if she could visit Casterly Rock along with the power house as a guest. Jaime nearly paled more than Brienne. Whether it was Brienne’s pleading eyes or brute intimidation, her pout persuaded Jaime to allow Missandei to visit.

Brienne set her pencil down on her sketch when Cersei set a filled tea cup on the end table next to her. Without a drop on her tongue, Brienne smelled the singular taste. Casterly Rock’s tea leaves gave her an insatiable and peculiar thirst. Perhaps her hunger before supper made her salivate unpleasantly. She offered Cersei a small smile. 

Cersei turned and asked Jaime, “How long is Miss Marbrand staying here?”

“A fortnight, I suppose,” Jaime said. He set his pencil down and leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “I’ve already taken care of her arrangements. I imagined she would return home the day of the ball, don’t you think?”

“The Marbrands are truly hosting a ball?” Cersei squinted. ”Where are the invitations?”

“At the post. You both need to decide on a costume. Fancy dresses, masquerade or cover yourself head to toe as some character, so long as you can dance.” Jaime’s eyes, for the first time in hours, glanced over at Brienne. 

Brienne avoided his glimpse and looked at her half-drawn sketch of the second floor of Casterly Rock, her procrastinating heart already in knots. She had known about the ball for a week but the pressurized decision scared her speechless. Brienne did not know how much she depended on Mrs. Dalla for advice on fashion until she lived halfway across Westeros. Her gowns, though beautiful, barely inspired her for a dance because none of them were significant enough. This ball gave her a chance to leave a lasting impression on the community, and she could not wear her regular gowns. She wanted to amaze people, and she wanted to feel beautiful. Her eyes wanted to link with Jaime’s as they waltzed and swept across the floor—hands clasped, smiles shared, affection blossomed—no longer so lonely. 

“I must say,” Cersei said, yanking Brienne out of her thoughts. “I’m excited to get out of this house.” Cheekbones lifted, Cersei smiled at her brother.

Jaime contrasted her with tense brows. Brienne stared until he glimpsed at her again, eyes on fire, and she grabbed her pencil as a means to avoid the sibling quarrel. She stared at drawings of the second floor of Casterly Rock, or what she remembered. She barely remembered anything, and designing a blueprint for a building she knew next to nothing about made her sketching near impossible. 

“Drink your tea,” Cersei said to Brienne.

Brienne straightened her back and reached for the cup. By the time she nodded, Cersei walked down the stairs and left the conversation. It took a great deal of energy to lift the cup to Brienne’s lips. Her tongue wanted not another drop of Casterly Rock’s tea. Disgusting shocks of the tea tipped into her mouth and she winced, curling her nose. She could not drink any more.

“Jaime,” she whispered and cleared her throat.

He focused on his calculations again but paid her little attention when compared to his sister.

“Jaime,” she said again. 

He raised his eyebrows and clenched his pencil. “What is it?” he asked as if he spoke to the paper. He refused to look at her.

Maevor walked up the small steps to the library with linen napkins.

Brienne swallowed and asked, “What is Valyrian for water?”

Jaime remained still and stared at his work. There it was again, the gulf between them. Other than their passion for engineering and progress, little tied them together. For the first time since their marriage, their distance burned her. 

“Iēdar,” he said.

Maevor, amidst a frown and half-wince, asked, “Iēdar? Miss Lannister vestās...” He quieted, and the look on Jaime’s face made his point clear enough. The unknown conflict resolved itself before Brienne understood it, and Maevor bowed and left.

Brienne said, “I hope it’s not too much tr—” 

“Why would it be?” Jaime said. “There is a translation textbook around here, perhaps you should learn the language.”

Energy rising, Brienne forced her face to remain calm. Cersei told her not to bother learning the language. The Lannisters’ conflicting advice twisted like a serpent and constricted her limbs until they could not move. Besides, Brienne spent most of her time sketching wire designs for Casterly Rock and looking over calculations for the power house transmissions. She had suggestions for both projects. Brienne ignored Jaime’s bait for argument and said, “I’m immensely busy with wiring plans—”

“Why? You need more than a week?” His eyes returned to his work.

“I—” she paused, losing all confidence to woo Jaime of her ambitious plan. He asked her for a circuit design for the first floor only: a ridiculous idea. Brienne thought it much more wise and effective to wire the entire estate. She did not understand why her bedroom, the servant’s bedrooms and the rest of the house should remain in the Dark Ages. Quiet, and already defeated, Brienne muttered, “I thought we might wire the entire house...”

Jaime scoffed, his eyes narrowing at her. “You want me to look over your shoulder while you work?”

Brienne frowned. “No.” 

“You’ve been wasting your time sketching plans for the second floor, haven’t you?”

She could not _lie._ “I’m not wasting time.”

“Have you gone to the third floor?”

“No, why don’t you—”

“This is a partnership. I’ve held up my end of the bargain. I fully expected you to be a brute when it came to expenses, not employment. It’s turned out quite the opposite. Your drawings are a fantasy far in the future. I have no interest wiring the rest of Casterly Rock. You know this, and you choose not to listen to me.”

Maevor returned, but Brienne focused entirely on Jaime. The butler set one pitcher of water on the end table next to Brienne. With one glance at her, Maevor brushed himself to the side and sneaked another large pitcher next to the first. Shoulder against the edge of the room, he excused himself down the stairs without a sound.

Brienne erased her emotional mask and scowled at Jaime. He glowered, but she hoped her bitter expression stung more than his. Voice thick with anger, she asked, “And when will you listen to me?”

Insulated from her attack, he chuckled. “Listen to what? The calculations my electricians already solved?”

“My ideas.”

“Your credit for the aluminum wires? The solitary idea you provided months ago? Do you want me to throw your name out to the press? Add a comely sketch of your face? I can choose to use your Tarth or Lannister name, although I know which name you prefer.” He scoffed again and chuckled. “Ideas.”

None of this was fair. By the time she came to the power house, most of it had been completed. If he did not want to ask about her ideas, she saw it necessary to defend them. “You pride yourself on innovation.”

“That is because I deserve the title.”

His self-serving interruptions became whips, but she persisted. “So do I. Once the power house runs, if you redirect the circuits on generator three and several transformers, you can send current over 150 miles from one generator and turn the other generator into a motor.”

He laughed, eyes heavy towards her. “They’re a few meters apart. Why do you come up with these ridiculous ideas?”

“Because it would be the longest transmission of electrical energy in the world.” 

At his desk, Jaime stared at his pencil. His right thumb rubbed along its spine. This experiment would prove AC power’s practicality and engineers would talk about their work for years. 

Brienne stood and heaved a deep breath. His silence tasted sweeter than his smile. She snatched a pitcher of water, holding it without a care of how improper she appeared. Having said her plan, the weight melted off of her. Now she knew why Cersei walked away. Jaime was insufferable. 

“Brienne,” Jaime said and waited for her to stop. “Draw up a plan.”

“I already have.” Brienne turned, halfway down the stairs from the library. “The first floor plans are on my table, along with the transmission proposal. You don’t have to look over my shoulder to look at my notes. I’m afraid it is I who must look over yours.” 

He said nothing, but even if he had, she convinced herself to resume walking. This place, with its dreary walls and lack of company, placed its hand across her throat. The unseen hand of this breathing, living mansion swept her to an uncomfortable state of mind, not unlike how she felt when her father passed. Other than their visits to Hura Falls, to check progress and calculations, she hated her days here. At meals, she sat across the siblings, who were either full of smiles and thick conversation or silence and glares. After breakfast, Brienne often busied herself by examining every corner of the first floor for her wiring plan. Nora followed her almost everywhere. On closer look, most of this estate was beyond repair. Walls crumbled. Wood rotted. Brienne decided on black wiring due to the fact she could not confidently open the walls without fear of them crumbling on top of her. Alone with Nora, Brienne would walk the gardens and grounds after lunch—if she was not at Hura Falls with Jaime. He spent little time with her, yet her mind thought of him often. Every day, whether separate or under the same roof, they returned to the library for afternoon tea with Cersei. They shared their supper like their breakfast, and Cersei often complained how frequently Jaime traveled to the power house.

Brienne did not blame her. She likely found it lonely to live in this place for her entire life, without a husband or family other than her satirical brother. Cersei made no moves or extended conversation to befriend Brienne, which stung. In fact, Brienne sensed Cersei’s disapproval, like she saw Brienne as a guest of Casterly Rock. It made Missandei’s visit all the more welcome.

Her evenings, after horrible tea she barely sipped, continued in the library, but today was an exception. Brienne diverted her pathway to the kitchen and poured her pitcher of water into an empty glass near the hutch. Five servants, once fixed in their work, froze and looked at Brienne. She tipped the glass to her mouth and drank like a horse lost in the desert. A drop of water trickled down the edge of her lips and slipped to her chin. When her eyes returned to the servants, three men and two women, a mixture of colors and races, each of them rushed to fill another pitcher of water for her. Brienne chuckled and shook her head, feeling far better than she felt moments before. None of them laughed. 

“No, thank you,” Brienne said.

The older of the five stepped forward, with his cedar skin, russet eyes and white wiry hair. “Kessa, Mrs. Lannister.”

“Please, call me Brienne.”

Two of them shared looks with one another, and she knew they did not understand her. Brienne offered a kind smile, bowed and stepped out of the kitchen before they witnessed her blush. Bowing, easier than a curtsy, made her wish she never stepped into the kitchen. Everything was easier for men. She expected to hear laughter from the kitchen, but no one laughed. 

Brienne ascended the stairs, especially having heard Cersei return to the drawing room and library. Aenela, the closest person whom she could call a friend in this house, was not in Brienne’s room. She had likely helped prepare Missandei’s room, which was also on the second floor. As she walked along the corridor, lit with afternoon light, Brienne’s eyes trailed along the sharpened, ornate details on the low ceiling. She could hide wires in the corners, and add sconces every meter or so. These walls appeared far less damaged than the first floor.

A tail of a maid’s dress turned a corner down the corridor. Brienne followed the maid in order to find Aenela. The maid held three sets of folded sheets in her arms. Her feet, half the size of Brienne’s, were twice as loud as Brienne’s blunted boots. Brienne might have lost herself if she did not follow the maid, for this place looked far different in daylight than it did at night. The maid, without noticing Brienne, slipped into a room down a small hallway. Brienne recognized the hallway’s window and the sudden view of the sea. She stepped through the hallway and gazed at the water, crinkled as a topographic map. It shimmered, until a hurried cloud hid the sun and changed the color of the sea in an instant—black and gray and no longer blue.

Laughs startled her, and a maid opened a door. Brienne panicked and escaped into the closest room. Once the door closed behind her, the laughter and joy muffled through wooden walls and she stood in a dark ante-room, constricted by wardrobes against walls larger than Brienne. She remembered the door and this room, from her encounter late at night with Cersei. This was Mrs. Lannister’s room. 

Brienne stepped through the ajar door and went through the room. Resurrected from its oppressive cloud, the sun streamed from the window in the alcove and teal arches spread on the dark paneling. Mouth open and eyes wide, she gazed at a fully furnished bedroom. Surely, dust-sheets were meant to cover chairs and tables, but each piece lay bare. Brushes and combs sat to the left of scent and powder on the dressing table. The bed, large enough to fit Brienne comfortably, was made pristine and ready for anyone to slip inside after a tiring day. On it, a satin nightgown draped over a corner, and a pair of bedroom slippers waited on the rug.

Brienne stepped back into time… to a time before Mrs. Lannister died… and Brienne expected Mrs. Lannister could return into the room at any moment. She, a person Brienne could only imagine as beautiful, would sit down before the looking glass, hum a tune and reach for her brush. Clicks from the clock brought Brienne to reality again. There was no Mrs. Lannister, but in this place, her presence dominated as if she were still alive. 

Curtains drawn, the thin windows allowed the sea’s whispers into the room. Compared to Brienne’s room, an uncomfortable place, every detail of this room was beautiful. Glass curved alongside the dresser top, an exact fit. Perfumes glistened, each five centimeters apart from the other—no more, no less. The bedstead curved with graceful swoops rather than harsh angles and lines of her own bed canopy. 

She would have loved to stay in a room like this, so feminine and graceful; but it was not hers. Brienne returned to the ante-room and opened a door of the wardrobe. Evening dresses filled its cavity. Based on the size of the dresses, Mrs. Lannister stood a dozen or so centimeters shorter. Every dress cinched inward at the waist, much smaller than Brienne could fit. A train of white satin dripped onto the floor, and an old ostrich feather fan propped against the corner. Staleness inside the wardrobe gave her the sense these clothes had not been laundered or touched in over a year.

A step behind Brienne made her turn and gasp. There stood Cersei, her chin up and her smile twisted. If she stood taller than Brienne, she would surely look down on her. “Is anything the matter?” Cersei asked.

Brienne tried to smile or speak, but could not.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Cersei asked and stepped closer, her breath washed over Brienne’s face. The tight ante-room shrunk around them both.

“I’m all right,” Brienne said, stepping to the side. If Cersei came closer, with her unblinking eyes and steady gaze, Brienne might faint.

“You’re curious about her,” Cersei said with a faint grin, her head tilted to the side. 

“I…” Brienne wanted to walk away, but Cersei already caught her in this room. Her words and intentions could not lie, even if she willed them to do so. In truth, Brienne found Mrs. Lannister fascinating—an unknown woman Cersei, Jaime and all other people in town knew so well. Even Renly had met the woman. She was a beauty, he said. Jaime was crushed, he said. Brienne saw it, too. With his brief smiles, she fooled herself to think that he could love her the same. “I am.”

Cersei took hold of Brienne’s arm and walked them towards the bed. Resisting her was pointless, a mind much more elegant and firm than her own. Her touch made Brienne shudder, Cersei’s voice low and intimate. “This was her bed. Beautiful, isn’t it? As beautiful as her, some would say. She had many maids, some better than others. It was a shame to get rid of them all. Jaime simply couldn’t stand it. She was a tiny thing compared to you, see her nightdress?”

Cersei reached forward and pulled the nightdress off the bed, “Touch it. It’s soft and light. She said Jaime preferred it. I’ve told the maids to not wash it since she wore it last, over a year ago.”

Fingers rather trembling, Brienne touched the silk. Cersei watched her, and caught sight of her sudden frown. 

Cersei said, “I would like to think all previous Mrs. Lannisters have their own right to a permanent place of comfort and sleep when they pass on, like a keepsake.” She returned the dress to its original spot and flattened the fabric. She gazed fondly at Brienne and reached her hand to caress Brienne’s straw-like hair. “This is no different than clipping off a piece of your hair, braiding it to keep it forever. Just as it was, never changing. We, the living, change. Jaime laughed more then. Life is rather simple with her gone.”

“I keep her dresses in the wardrobe,” Cersei said. “I come here occasionally to relive her memory and the joy she brought us.” Cersei continued to hold Brienne’s arm, tightening over time. “I try to keep the sea and moths from taking over this place. Of course, you know the whole story.”

Brienne stiffened. “I do not.”

Cersei gave a small smile. “She drowned while sailing. All of her clothes were torn off her body in the water, not a thing on her body when it was found weeks later.” Her fingers tightened on Brienne’s arm. “I’m surprised Jaime has not told you about her. She was his everything. Do you know her name?”

Looking at the window, Brienne subtly shook her head. The sea darkened again under another set of dark clouds.

“Pia,” Cersei said.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Quotes from this chapter are from Havelock Ellis (1859-1939)

Through clouds of gnats, Brienne welcomed Missandei as the sun died in the sky. Its orange light turned the sky a mixture of pinks and reds. Missandei’s maid and driver helped unload the car. The maid’s skin was a shade less pale than Brienne and she had dark auburn hair. Missandei hopped out of the car amidst giggles and opened her arms for Brienne, who willingly welcomed them. 

“The road was even more beautiful than when I saw it as a child. How is it that this place blooms in cold weather?” Missandei asked, dressed in a beige frock.

“I’m not sure,” Brienne said, confronted by the reality she knew almost nothing about Casterly Rock.

Both of them stepped back to admire the trees and pines scratching the sky. Missandei’s smile brightened Brienne’s world like the stars, a sense of perpetual calmness and joy she longed for. She thought long about how both of them felt they did not belong, yet they tried so desperately to achieve the goal of fitting in. Their unique natures seemed reversed. Missandei’s hair leveled out at Brienne’s shoulders. Like a magnet, Brienne’s eyes clung to Missandei’s hair, so full and vibrant compared to her own. The young woman’s hair, lips and eyes expressed beauty, unlike Brienne, and yet, Missandei’s gaze lingered on the freckles on Brienne’s arm. They were faded, irregular and sickly looking in Brienne’s mind, but Missandei smiled at them. Neither of them cared to mention their differences, as obvious as they were. 

They both slipped off their gloves and walked inside. The sight of the staff made Missandei stiffen. Across the foyer, the servants stared open mouthed and quiet. Beside Brienne, Missandei swallowed and tucked her chin lower.

“Do you know them?” Brienne whispered.

“No.” Missandei continued to stare ahead at them and bit her lip. She paused, even after the servants scattered when Cersei walked down the staircase. Missandei’s eyes lifted to watch Cersei, still in her slimming teal gown. 

“In time for supper,” Cersei said, smiling.

Brienne cleared her throat. “Miss Missandei Marbrand this is Miss Cersei Lannister.”

Both curtsied, but Cersei’s smile welcomed Missandei far better than Brienne when she first arrived. Brienne flashed over to Jaime, who entered the foyer from the drawing room.

He said, “Should I ask Maevor to bring supper out on this sunken bit of floor or are we ready to eat?”

Brienne held back a smile while Cersei whirled to greet her brother. All three women possessed understanding to not encourage Jaime’s humor with laughs or smiles. He dropped his unpredictable nature and adapted a host-like behavior. He welcomed Missandei to Casterly Rock and escorted everyone to the dining room. 

Missandei’s eyes followed Maevor and Valon when they were not looking. While eating, she ate small bites and chewed slowly. She swallowed whenever Cersei asked about her watercolors, or whenever Jaime asked about Valyrian language. Missandei said both her mother and father knew Valyrian due to the plantation estate on Naath. Brienne, lost in her world of fish stew, thought more of Mrs. Lannister than the conversation at hand. The previous Mrs. Lannister must have loved fish, especially if she appreciated sailing. Now named, Pia invaded Brienne’s mind like a parasite, and she thought of nothing else once Pia entered. She ate her meal in silence and imagined what Mrs. Lannister looked like. Perhaps she had dark hair, a slim body and full chest.

Maevor waited behind Brienne, and when he cleared his throat the sound made her jump in her chair. Everyone’s eyes looked over at her, expressions plain, except Jaime’s. He smirked, seemingly amused by her awkward behavior. Maevor slipped his hand over the table and under the plate, glimpsing at Missandei.

Cersei folded her delicate hands at the edge of the table. “Why don’t you two enjoy the library? There are more than enough sketching papers to entertain you both while we finalize your room.”

Thankful Cersei did not ask Brienne to play the piano, Brienne nodded and stood. Jaime’s eyes followed her, and when she glanced at him, he looked away. Missandei avoided everyone’s gazes and followed Brienne through the foyer and the drawing room. Nora followed them into the library. Behind them, Valon tried his best to remain unseen, but both ladies quieted while he piled more logs into the small fireplace and stoked the fire. He bowed and left to tend to the larger fire in the drawing room. The daylight bled dry into darkness. Candles and firelight failed to take its place, and even so, they were weak compared to electricity. The moment Valon stepped out of earshot, Missandei managed a weak smile.

Brienne turned to the desk, Jaime’s desk, and seated herself. A series of candles lit the desk well enough to see a pile of papers, sketches and a note with Brienne’s name on it. Crumple-faced, she reached for the note. It was blank—as if Jaime could not find enough cross words to sting her. A blank note hurt more.

“Do you read these books?” Missandei asked. She dragged her fingers across a line of smaller novels, closer to the fire.

Thinking of the only two novels she glimpsed at while in this house, Brienne caved her chest inward and said, “No…”

Missandei walked closer and teased, “Why are you blushing?”

“I—” Brienne heated like a coiled metal wire and forced a smile. “Some of these books are quite...”

“I’m dreadfully tired of reading the same, traditional story. We never collect anything exciting at home. What do you recommend?”

“I don’t know, I’m usually busy reading textbooks,” Brienne said, her voice croaking by the end of it.

“May I?” Missandei asked, her index finger picked on the spine of a book.

“Of course.”

Missandei smiled and lifted the book into her arms, cradling it open in two palms. She seated herself in Brienne’s usual chair near the crackling fire. While her friend read quietly to herself, Brienne peered over Jaime’s mountain of papers. She organized them, as any business partner would do. With every turn of a page, she expected to see a love note to his previous wife, or a lost journal page describing every detestable behavior and expression Brienne showed him. She found neither and placed sketches to the left and bank letters to the right. On those bank letters, she saw her name listed as an investor. It showed an accurate representation of her financial contribution over the last quarter of the year. The final expense number, however, far exceeded what she expected. Brienne examined closer to see wages accounted for sixty percent of expenses. Her stomach tightened to the point she surely bruised it. The bank note listed Jaime Lannister next to the wages line, and her heart whispered it could not be true. He said he took no salary, and yet, the numbers told her something different.

Missandei quoted the book she held, “ _What we call morals is blind obedience to words of command._ ”

Pondering the words, Brienne stared at the fire, a mixture of smoke, flame and embers. She did not want to be blind, not nearly as blind as she had been. She followed social norms, such as wearing dresses and marrying. Were morals only commands? Her favorite achievement in life was not wearing dresses or marriage; it was her degree.

“Have you thought about education?” Brienne asked. Many men found women’s education immoral, but she ignored their stagnant nature.

“Not particularly, although I enjoy intellectual conversations.” Missandei feigned a smile with a flicker of a wince.

“Why don’t you go?”

Missandei stared at the lace detail at the end of her beige dress. “I have interest in learning, but little to no interest in obtaining a degree. I know the Marbrands appear wealthy, but there is little tied to my name until...”

“Your father…”

“Is not Addam,” Missandei shook her head, smiling. “My father was a blacksmith in Naath. My mother was Addam’s older sister. While I am the sole heir of the Marbrand name, in order to receive my inheritance, I must marry.”

Brienne tried to hide her grimace. Women bore the moral weight of marriage. She knew the process well enough. Men, banks and the like placed requirements for women to follow. Brienne’s large inheritance still needed to transfer, and she expected documentation from the post any day. After signing the document from her solicitor and bank, the money would be hers and held in Lannisport’s bank. “Finding a suitable marriage is a process,” Brienne said. The process mirrored grief.

“I already have one, I suppose,” Missandei said, transfixed in a rather bored daydream in the fire. “He is a cousin and we are to be married as soon as he returns from military service, now that I am of age. I hope I’ll be quite happy, although he does not live in Lannisport.”

They shared a short gaze—two women thrust into the arms of men who needed them more than wanted them. Brienne’s marriage and education provided no example, thus she remained quiet. Both of them looked to the stairs at the sound of footsteps on moaning wood. 

Cersei stepped into the library and said to Missandei, “Your bath is drawn.” A strand of wavy hair untucked itself from her hair, sticking out the side of her head. Her chest, in a rise and fall, pressed against her tight gown, creaks and stretches of fabric loud enough for Brienne to hear.

All three women shared brief smiles while Missandei departed for the evening. Maevor, unable to look at Missandei, guided her to her room and bath on the second floor. Cersei remained in the library. The clock ticked louder, and the fire breathed.

“Have you not decided yet what you will wear?” Cersei asked. Her hand, delicate and half open, leaned against the railing of the library. She turned her shoulders away from the view of the drawing room and faced Brienne, who remained at Jaime’s desk. Her lips curved into a tense smile.

“No,” Brienne said. Her heart pounded at the reminder. She poured her time and effort into her work, but the responsibility of designing a dress made her nails itch. She might as well wear a dress of poison ivy, its toxins spreading into her faster than these walls poisoned her.

“I wonder why you don’t use these books for inspiration. Or these old sketchbooks from our family.” Cersei continued watching her.

Brienne placed her hands underneath the desk and on her lap. Her fingers did not rest gently like Cersei’s, they squeezed and rubbed against her palms. “I might think about that,” Brienne said. She never knew this library had ancestral sketches of gowns.

Cersei’s hand lifted off the railing. She stepped over to a large bookcase in the dark corner of the library. Returning with a book the size of Brienne’s shoulders, she offered the spine end to Brienne. Carefully, Brienne accepted it and set it on the desk, flattening the sketches and papers underneath its weight. Cersei said, “All of the sketches in here would be wonderful, but it is not a period ball. I never think people look right dressed in rags, patches or dressed like a clown in a carnival. Women deserve to look and feel beautiful, while men wear boring frock coats.” Her friendly voice lingered in Brienne’s ear.

Perhaps she offered peace after all of their blundered interactions. Brienne understood where misunderstandings arose. She hated the tea Cersei made her, and it never looked respectful to curl one’s nose at the taste of someone’s hospitality.

Cersei leaned over and opened the large book, its hardcover tapped against Jaime’s pile of sketches. After a dozen flips of pages, Cersei pointed her finger, with its oval and flawless nail, at a gown sketched on a mannequin. She looked over one of the most unique and stunning dresses, and the sketch had zero color. The left page displayed the front and side of the arms, looped with unusual pleats on its sleeves. Coin-sized buttons clasped the bodice in the middle and front, the hips curved outward, and the outer skirt folded into large pleats fit for royalty. Underneath its elegant skirt, layers of tree bark pleating pooled onto the floor... as long as the dress itself. On the other page, the back of the dress displayed a knotted, laced line along the spine.

“You can send this sketch to Greza in Lannisport. They would have it done in two weeks. Jaime’s favorite color would suit this dress perfectly,” Cersei said.

“What color is that?”

“The color of oleanders, crimson and powerful. Or scarlet carnations, if you’ve seen them already, you know. Call it red.”

Brienne thanked Cersei and she replied with a faint smile. Since Jaime and Brienne’s arrival, Cersei now appeared truly happy, although it showed in dull colors. Perhaps she appreciated new guests in the home, people to talk with, and the idea of a ball gave her an odd sense of excitement about her. Once Cersei left the library, Brienne carefully separated the sketches and wrote her notes to the designer.

_“I am requesting this dress to be made within a fortnight and delivered to Casterly Rock. Budget is not a limitation. I prefer high quality material and silks. Choose a crimson red as the color. Below you will find my measurements, all accurate.”_

Her writing, unlike Mrs. Lannister’s, crumpled into boring text without individuality. It appeared uneducated. Brienne blamed her lack of style on the darkness or late evening air, and she prepared the note and sketches in a letter to send to the shop.

She stood, after what felt like hours, and her hips ached. Crossing the library to exit, she noticed Missandei’s book on the end table. Maids and servants worked enough and, if her fears were true, for little or no pay. Brienne picked up the book, but before she placed it in its empty nest on the shelf, she peered through four pages. She held a non-fiction book, rather than a novel. A man wrote his opinions of the mind, and like most psychological scientists, his strong opinions filled the book’s pages.

_No act can be quite so intimate as the sexual embrace._

She swallowed, closed the book and returned it to its place on the wall.

The next day, after breakfast, Missandei, Brienne and Jaime readied for a ride to see Hura Falls. Cersei said her goodbyes, along with five servants who peered out of the windows. Missandei, in her yellow frock, sat on the far left side of the car. Its long, singular seat forced Brienne sat between Missandei and Jaime. Her friend held onto her hat and the side of the car for support, and her eyes anticipated a world of wonder. 

Brienne hands gripped the golden silk of her own skirt, unable to find any other source of stability. Her abdomen tightened under the corset, and her heart jolted the moment Jaime’s left hand gripped the gear lever, brushing against the side of Brienne’s thigh. His hand left the second he found the right gear. The car rolled forward, and she thought herself safe from contact until the first left turn. Missandei’s weight leaned into her and Brienne leaned into Jaime. Her ruffled shoulder collided with his—form strong, yet he allowed none of her weight to press further. He barely moved except the turn of the wheel. His left arm reached forward, and Brienne tensed at the sight of his hand grabbing towards her skirts, but he snatched the lever instead. Still on the turn, her shoulder slipped underneath his arm and landed near the side of his chest. The memory of her hand on his heart quickened her own, but it had been over a week since she last touched him. She fell asleep almost nightly without him in their bed, and she would wake to see his side ruffled and unkempt. He detested her, surely.

For fear of offending Missandei, who found the toss worthy of a few giggles, Brienne allowed her weight to lean on Jaime. His hand fumbled with the lever, yanking to find the right gear while her innocent thigh felt every brush of pressure. She squeezed her thighs closer together, and the tightness gave her a sudden pulse of pleasure from between her legs. The wind carried his scent closer and she closed her eyes.

Road leveled out, her weight no longer leaned towards him, and instead the road changed direction. Missandei gasped and rescued herself with a tight, gloved grip on the side of the car. Jaime remained stable.

“Apologies,” Brienne muttered, worried her voice blushed.

“Are you apologizing for torque?” Jaime said. “Does that mean you take credit for gravity and other laws of nature?”

Brienne scowled at him, and it washed away the moment his half-smile anticipated another left curve. Her face dropped. Missandei, in her fits of giggles and wandering eyes, pinned Brienne back against Jaime. He drove slow enough to prolong the journey through the rounding corner, but fast enough to force their weight in his direction.

“You’ll not find me easy to knock off,” he said. “I, and my car, are strong enough. Pile three others onto this car and it would still drive.”

“Where would they sit?” Missandei asked. Her spare hand rested in her lap while the road flattened.

“Some could fit in the trunk, I suppose. Who needs lunch or sketches? The point is, this car can handle weight and pressure.”

Brienne frowned. “Can its driver handle it?”

“If you hopped on my lap, it would make no difference. Except I could not see a damn thing except your golden imprisonment or those broad shoulders of yours. Perhaps you can ride your bicycle and tow the lot of us up the hill.”

If so, she planned to drive them all off a cliff... except Missandei. Brienne reached for the dashboard of the car, still able to feel its sharp edge through her gloves. She straightened herself to brace for another curve, away from Jaime. Her lips pressed into a thin line. Missandei grabbed Brienne’s left arm for support. Scoffing, Jaime pressed his boot against the pedal and the car chugged faster.

The perpetual mist from Hura Falls, gentle but insistent, softly kissed their argument silent. Missandei pointed out trees she climbed as a child. They glistened in the morning light, and Jaime shared a genuine smile with Brienne for a moment, until they both realized who they shared their smile with. They left the loud whispers of the large waterfall and descended to the cavern. Brienne preferred to hold her breath on the elevator rides, not for a game, but to restrict Jaime’s scent from distracting her. When the gates opened at the entrance of the cavern, she breathed in chilled, metallic air.

Jaime left for work and Brienne gave Missandei a tour for at least an hour. Her eyes glossed like the sea whenever Brienne tried to explain how a tight coil of copper wire with current creates a magnetic field. Missandei asked questions, growing more natural and relaxed as the tour continued. When Jaime and workers gathered for a meeting, Missandei froze at the sight of them—her eyes scanning every face. Perhaps Missandei also doubted their source of income, and the thought made Brienne grow hot. After five seconds, Missandei asked to sketch a drawing of the falls. Brienne instructed her how to use the elevator and encouraged her to enjoy herself.

As the elevator lifted Missandei, they gave weak waves to one another. Jaime approached one meter behind Brienne.

He said, “We need to talk.”

“We do.”

Jaime sighed. “I know you won’t listen to me until you tell me whatever is bothering you. Go on with it.”

Brienne squared her shoulders, unbent her spine and said, “I discovered a few interesting papers last night, some detailing the expenses of the past quarter. I did not see a single coin directed towards workers, staff—”

He laughed. “You think better of a piece of paper than me. Are you more comfortable engaging in conversation with bleached wood pulp than the owner of the company who employs you? You have many habits from school to break, I’m afraid. Why do you not ask questions or come to me when they occur in that bare-knee forehead of yours?”

“I’m asking you now.”

“I hear you, much like I see your doubt in me. I would like to know how you manage to press your lips so tightly that only a millimeter of them show, or how you crease your forehead. Now, that is a hard expression to forget. It’s a wonder I don’t laugh myself sick. Your contributions, whatever you’ve provided, fund the wiring, transformer repairs and substation finalizations, and you know all of this. You see, I distribute wages on a weekly basis to workers here, at substations and the estate. Every coin from rent I receive from our tenants goes straight to purchasing wages. Those wages you saw travel through the company, so conveniently scribed as my name. As I’ve said before, I take none of it. My workers and servants are paid better than any other Lannisport servant.”

His voice raised and Brienne muttered, “I... thought…”

“I know what you _thought._ ”

“I owe you an apology.”

“No, you owe me your trust.”

She found it hard to trust anyone, harder every year, every day.

Jaime lowered his eyebrows. “Your doubt in me is another problem to solve, but I must say, it’s harder than chiseling this rock. You want to bring power to people, yes?”

“In an honorable way.”

“You saw those sketches of me in the paper. You find those honorable?”

“No.”

“Some think electricity will burn everyone to a crisp, and others are idiodic supporters of direct current as the sole source of power. To them, we are not honorable. You must be confident in your beliefs, confident in your work and confident in me. This power house, _our_ goal, will wash away with our failure if we do not work together.”

“I know the price and pressure of legacy.”

“Then why doubt me? I’ve done nothing but give you what you want.”

Brienne’s nose crinkled beside hot cheeks, disgusted with her own judgment and stubbornness. “As a woman, I find it hard to trust anyone. People assess my value for things I cannot change.”

“You think I judge you?”

“You married me. Judgment intervened at some point or another, and I’m sure it continues to do so.”

“I suppose, and yet here we are, two frustrated business partners. How do you judge me?”

“Rash,” she said, and he smirked. “Untouchable.”

“Untouchable?”

“I married you for employment—”

“If you find me untouchable—”

“I do. I find you in the past, always, to a time I did not exist. I dare not touch it, because I know how grief lingers. Other than your mockery, I find you rather respectful, and now that I know the wages I find you honorable as well. Your…” Brienne thought of herself as a poor replacement. She lived in the past as much as him, constantly reminded of the dead and how they affected the present and future. She whispered, “Your loyalty inspires me.”

His fists clenched. With all of the energy she had lost, he said, “Since when do you talk so much? I’ve lost the pleasure of talking with you. Are you ever going to work?”

Brienne stood silent while he boiled in front of her. “You said you needed to talk…”

“Ah, you trust me well enough to remind me. Next time you have a silly thought in your head, come to me right away. Your mind rots faster when you let it stew in poison. I’ll save you the trouble. I came over here to tell you we are opening the river gates the week after the ball. Run your final tests on the transformers.”

Nodding, she decided against asking about her electric motor idea. She guessed he never looked at her plan. The past irked him in such a way it made her own heart break. Her uncontrollable and foolish heart did not understand his heart belonged to another, and his heart would never beat for hers. She looked at the floor and he walked away.

Brienne rode by herself in the elevator and worked in the transformer house until lunch. They had three hours before Jaime would find them, demanding they return home in time for afternoon tea. Missandei smiled at her meal, stuffed with potatoes and fiber seasoned with spices Brienne hardly recognized. Jaime did not join her and Missandei, who both sat on a log with a great view of the waterfall. The water’s beauty clarified her calculations of Jaime’s words, which she replayed in her head. He did not doubt her work, in fact, he encouraged her confidence. His awareness assessed Brienne withheld as many inner thoughts as he did. She thought of how long she considered the workers and servants underpaid, and in reality, they received more wages than her. How much suffering did she endure due to her solitary thoughts? Her heart quickened.

Missandei leaned back and admired her sketch. “Done.”

She scooted closer to Missandei, willing for distraction, and she peered over her sketchbook. Missandei drew a perfect likeness of the waterfall, its crooked streams and feathery mist between jagged cliffs. Trees freckled along the ridges and the long staircase stretched across the rocks like a faded scar. A large circle loomed over the edge of the mountains and Brienne asked, “Is that the sun?”

“No, it’s the moon.”

Brienne frowned. “Why the moon?”

“Hūra Falls. In Valyrian, hūra means moon.”

Her fingers chilled and mist trickled down her neck. The stones beneath their feet glistened, slippery as a fish out of water. She thought back to the seance and the four words the medium repeated: _beware of the moon_. This beautiful waterfall possessed a sharp sword of danger. In these falls, gravity pulled whatever dared to cross the river’s edge, whether it be a drop of water, a floating log or a tip-toed explorer. She listened to the loud crash of every drop of water at the bottom of the falls. Was it the waterfall whispering or her father?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I want to give credit to Empress M for detailed pictures of the dress mentioned in this chapter. We’ll see [this dress](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a5ee984177abf714f46bcf0cdf3f8ec4/06f3ba5e587e4678-cc/s540x810/37089f2ab28b057adaba5c380e67aac56bbf05ab.jpg) again soon!


	12. Chapter 12

“This took ages to arrive,” Cersei said, taking a sealed envelope from Maevor’s gloved hand. She held the envelope near a candle flame in order to examine its contents without opening it. While the teal velvet of her gown reflected light, the leaf motifs along the middle of her dress absorbed it. “I daresay,” Cersei said, “it traveled the world. I thought King’s Landing had respectable banks but now I see they take their time.”

Brienne, in a flat yellow skirt and emerald velvet jacket, sat next to Missandei at breakfast and waited for Cersei to hand the letter to her. Jaime’s seat, at the end of the table, remained empty. He had left in the early morning hours to negotiate with business companies and franchises in Lannisport. They barely talked since their argument several days prior, and she worried he would refuse her contribution to this entire project. Her progress with him had fallen apart.

“Sign and seal it this morning, and Valon can take it to the post today,” Cersei said while she stretched her arm over the table. Behind her, Maevor bowed and walked out. Missandei’s eyes followed him.

Hand cold, Brienne accepted the letter and managed a brief smile. Cersei grinned in response. Her smiles almost convinced Brienne to ask for a copy of the house keys again, but the thought of upsetting both Jaime and his sister gave her pause. Brienne stood instead, her plate empty except for a half-peeled sour tangerine. Missandei straightened her posture but did not stand. She remained at her seat, her fork half buried in scrambled eggs. A male servant, young and with darker complexion than Missandei, edged his way silently beside Brienne to take her empty plate.

“Are you still eating?” Brienne asked Missandei.

“Yes, I’ll meet you in the morning room once I’ve finished.”

“Take your time.”

“Today’s a cold day, ladies,” Cersei said. “I’ll make you both some tea to warm you up.”

Missandei expressed her appreciation. Brienne said nothing. She followed Cersei out of the dining room, through the foyer and into the drawing room. While shorter than Brienne, Cersei walked with straight shoulders and an air of confidence. Their paths diverted when Cersei seated on the piano bench and Brienne opened the door to the morning room. Through the closed door, she heard Cersei speak Valyrian. Soft piano murmured through the walls.

Brienne walked past the gentle fire and fresh red flowers on the mantelpiece. As time passed, she despised this room more and more. It reminded her of Mrs. Lannister’s room, and even on first glance, Missandei had mentioned how different this room felt compared to every other room she saw. Without Nora in front of the fire, Brienne hated its solitude. Nora avoided this room, as she now preferred to spend her mornings herding seagulls around the property. Brienne’s presence surely bored Nora, as Brienne was uninteresting compared to to the previous Mrs. Lannister. If only Nora knew she calmed Brienne.

Five large and leather bound books were piled on the desk by the window. Brienne narrowed her eyes. A singular golden ribbon fastened itself on top, along with a folded note with Brienne’s name on it. She set the bank’s letter on the desk, slipped the new note out from under its bow and opened it.

_Brienne, I know you will find ample use of these textbooks. To both of our great disappointments, you need not use mine anymore. This is the newest edition of mechanical and electrical engineering, and I fear I may use it from time to time, if you will allow me. Our names are not mentioned in these texts yet. Regard these books as yours, as a considerably late and singular bridal gift. - Jaime_

The edges of every page glittered, full of fresh printed scent. She no longer held back her smile and seated herself. Opening the first book, a volume of alternating currents and transmission of electric power, her eyes welled at the sight of the detailed circuits and drawings. Not a drop of tea or scuff mark disfigured its near thousand pages. She could not think of a better gift...

Knocks at the door startled her, and they did not wait for Brienne to welcome them. Cersei walked in, followed by Maevor and Missandei.

“Henujagon,” Cersei said. Maevor quickly set down the tray, full of two porcelain cups, tea leaf containers and kettle on the table near the fireplace. Missandei stopped before she sat on the loveseat. 

“Not you, of course. I forget you understand.” Cersei said to Missandei, forcing a tight lipped smile.

Missandei nodded while Maevor left the room. She seated herself and held her closed sketchbook in her lap as she gazed at the fire.

“What are those books doing here and not in the library?” Cersei asked. She poured steamed water over tea in a strainer. She returned her eyes to the cup she prepared.

Brienne felt her cheeks grow warm. Jaime gave her a gift, and yet it meant more than a simple present. He observed her without her knowing and knew she hesitated every moment she reached for his textbooks on mechanical instruction. Perhaps these were meant as an apology for his behavior, although she knew him well enough to never expect the direct words from his lips. Whether he apologized or not, his precision in gift giving made her toy with smiles. “A wedding gift from Jaime,” she said. 

Cersei blinked once and paused, the kettle tilted in mid-air. After a painful silence, she turned her back towards Brienne and set the kettle on the tray. Her hand reached to the circle of keys and fussed with the small wooden container of peculiar and locked teas. Cersei sprinkled a few of its previously locked tea leaves into a new strainer, presumably Brienne’s cup. “What is the point of such a gift when you will hardly use it?” Cersei asked.

“I very much plan on using it.”

“Our work is almost done. He’s already completed most of it. I would think gaining a new estate, employment and husband is more than satisfactory as a gift for a new bride.”

“I never asked for gifts.”

Cersei finished pouring the water over the second cup and let it steep. She placed the kettle on the tray, locked the tea cabinet and returned the key to her ring, hanging on her hip. First teacup in hand, Cersei set Missandei’s tea beside her, near the fireplace.

Brienne dropped her ignored frown and asked, “Why do you lock the tea?”

Back at the tea tray, one of Cersei’s delicate fingers dipped into the strainer and swirled through the hot water and soaking leaves. She stared at the invisible pathway her finger traced in the water. “Tea needs protection from its enemies. If you let tea breathe in air or too long in the sun, it loses its flavor, its power. This tea is far more valuable and traditional in our family than engineering. I wonder why Jaime did not choose farming. Instead of electricity, he could cultivate and spread our tea to those that need it most. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Do people not find it bitter?” Brienne clenched her jaw.

Missandei looked into her teacup, followed by a wide scan around the room.

“Some tongues are more sensitive than others. The more bitter the tea, the stronger its benefits. The fact you find it so bitter still means you have to acquire its taste. You are so new here. How do you like the tea, Missandei? It’s the same kind, you know.”

“I like it very much, thank you,” Missandei said.

Cersei lifted the porcelain strainer and drops trickled from the strainer into the teacup. With a smile, she set the strainer on the tray, scooped the teacup and served it to Brienne. Her smile dropped when she saw the note and bow in Brienne’s hands. “I can take these items to the library,” Cersei said, managing another smile. “Drink your tea. I daresay, the more you drink, the better you’ll feel.”

Pain spread through the pit of Brienne’s stomach. A change of air spread around her and the whiff of tea became an invisible hand, fingers wrapped around her throat. “I would rather read my gift this morning before I work,” Brienne said.

“Very well. Have you signed the bank document?”

“I have not.”

“How passive.”

“Passive?”

“I instructed Valon it would be ready to deliver within the hour.”

“I did not give such instruction.”

“Surely, you see the importance.”

“I do not see the cause for your interest in my financial affairs.”

Cersei laughed once and leaned over the desk. “My dear, your interests are mine now. You’re family.” Her voice quieted to a steady whisper, “I assume you understand the consequence of bad fortune, considering the sudden death of your father… Accidents happen when you least expect it.” 

Brienne focused into Cersei’s freckled green eyes. Surely, Cersei saw Brienne as a source of income. The mention of her father silenced her, as they never discussed her father’s death before this. How did Cersei know? Cersei’s stare held Brienne and refused to let go, not a flicker of sympathy or light, only foreboding; it was a threat. Brienne’s hand clenched the golden ribbon, disappointed she held neither sword nor shield. 

Cersei pulled away, her eyes still fixed on Brienne. “I will come back after I instruct the gardeners where to thin the weeds. I hope they’re the last of the year.”

Averting to the fire, Brienne did not watch Cersei leave the room. Cersei’s reason for threatening made little sense in Brienne’s eyes, but the seed, like a persistent weed, grew in her thoughts. Her heart twisted, weeping at the realization her new sister did not like her, her work or her knowledge.... and likely never would. Brienne looked at the yellow trim near the color of her jacket. She picked yellow leaves and berry-like adornments around her color, similar to Cersei’s style; and Cersei did not notice.

“I forgot my charcoal in my room. Will you be fine in here, alone?” Missandei asked, her eyes closed in a long blink.

Brienne straightened her posture and said, “Yes, of course.”

“Are you… all right? You look pale.”

“I am, I simply don’t feel well.”

“Darlessa hears that and she would immediately ask you if you’re starting an infant.”

Brienne set the bow on the desk and shook her head. She had hardly started her marriage. For a brief moment, she daydreamed of children running into the morning room with boots covered in mud. Raising children in this mansion sounded horrible, and Cersei harassed her as much as these walls.

Missandei left, leaving Brienne alone, and whispers from the fire and clock disappeared. The Lannisters’ words stung because her own stubbornness burdened them, and no one wanted to be a burden. She tried to be independent and excel at her work to limit her reliance on them. Heat radiated off her cheeks at the realization she trusted neither Jaime nor Cersei, and yet, they were family. Those two were the only family she had. She wanted to befriend Cersei, and live in blissful harmony in a desolate mansion. If it took a simple signature to earn her trust, she would do so.

Brienne opened the bank letter.

_“Dear Mrs. Lannister,_

_Please be advised that the first transfer of your father’s estate has been completed. Now, the final transaction for the remaining sum will require your signature on the document enclosed.”_

A large thump hit the ceiling above her, and Brienne snapped to look at the ceiling. Her heart lurched, flailing around for escape like a bird trapped in a cage. Parched lips convinced her to reach for her tea. She winced, forcing herself to drink as much of the tea as she could stand. If Cersei saw how much Brienne drank, maybe she could change Cersei’s opinion of her. The tea tasted awful—bitter to the point it coated every surface in her mouth in a tacky slime. Her throat gagged and tongue trembled. The importance of the letter washed away with a single breath and her mouth screamed for water... anything but the remaining drops in her cup.

Brienne scrambled to standing. Her chair legs screeched on the wooden floor, and she stormed over to the tea tray. Like a mindless animal, she lifted the kettle spout to her lips. The little bit of water left in the kettle almost burned her lips. She opened her mouth and heaved for cooler air. Remnants of the tea crawled down her throat and into her stomach. Her tongue continued to roam inside her mouth, desperate to erase the sappy taste. Hand on the tray for support, it shivered with her, and the porcelain strainers clanked on the silver platter. Heaps of curled, black leaves filled one strainer. Flat, broken and dark green leaves filled the other. Brienne touched the green leaves, covered in a slimy, cold mucus. Her eyes, confronted by the truth, wanted to refuse the fact that these were different teas. No one wanted to be treated differently, and in a perfect world, her new sister would welcome her with kindness. This was not a perfect world.

Insistent, her eyes to Missandei’s tea near the fire. Borderline untouched and almost full, a clear and faint brown liquid contained in a white teacup. Brienne recalled Cersei saying they were the same tea. She stepped forward, hesitant as if the lone teacup might bite her as hard as her own. Not bothering to sit, she plucked the teacup off its saucer and examined the cup in her hand. The liquid rolled around, vibrating.

Embers cracked and poured its heat into the morning room, and when Brienne tipped a taste of tea into her mouth, she tasted nothing except common black breakfast tea. Her throat, still scared, found difficulty swallowing it. A cold chill soaked into her bones. 

Cersei was not trying to befriend her; she lied to her, mocked her, hated her.

Brienne thrust the teacup down and ran for the door. She sought out for support she almost always refused and rushed up the stairs to find Missandei. Three maids quieted at the sight of her, but Brienne continued through the hallways. The sound of Missandei’s giggle stopped her, and she turned a corner to find her. Down a small corridor, a door slammed closed, and Brienne slowed her steps. Her chest and heart screamed for more air, all while her mind dizzied. She pieced together every sign she previously missed. Cersei gave her that tea the very first day Brienne arrived. It appeared she saved that tea for Brienne and Brienne alone.

Her quiet hand opened the door while her heart started to calm without her consent. Eyes peered through the crack, she saw Missandei pressed against the wall with one of the male servants; the gentleman from breakfast who took her plate. Her hand splayed against flattened, curled waves on his head, and her eyes shut tight; but she smiled. They kissed. They moved to the right, and the young man’s eyes opened, seeing Brienne. She held back a gasp and said nothing, jolting away. Brienne became the eavesdropper at a closed door or shuttered window. Neither Missandei or the man came out. Her fingers no longer quaked and pulse slowed despite her magnifying fear of solitude.

Turning, Brienne walked through the fog of the house, more disoriented. She ingested something tainted, her gut insisted on it—the tea. Steady taps of her pulse rang in her ears. She grabbed her bicycle outside the house. In her yellow skirt, she straddled onto the seat and pushed herself forward. The bicycle carried her, along with a mindless reminder to push her left foot, followed by her right, followed by her left and so forth. Each press of the pedal gave her a lightheaded rush, and her breaths shortened. Her ailments mattered little to her, she needed to find Jaime. 

A slow drag, she passed underneath Casterly Rock’s gated archway. She might have traveled faster if she walked. The dizziness amplified, like a runaway circuit, burning under a force too powerful to escape. She sensed her body failing, like the wires she toyed with in the laboratory. There was no spark or alarm of danger; the damage crept in undetected until it could not be stopped. Her body burned yet chilled. Her mind, once strong, became weak, and one by one, her muscles followed the same fate. She thought of the tea and how Cersei insisted on its consumption at every opportunity. Brienne had never sipped more than a small amount until now. Jaime never asked for tea; Cersei always prepared Brienne’s tea specifically for her. This was no joke, the tea was not simply gross. There was no other explanation. Not only did Cersei hate her, she poisoned her.

Her grip loosened and the bicycle tipped the moment her hands slipped. Her weight leaned and tumbled into the dirt of the road.

The outline of the gate hazed in her vision. She refused to lie there unwillingly, but her arms did not allow her to lean up. Her cheek, no longer hers, leaned against the dirt without reason or choice. She closed her eyes, too weak to open them. Riding this far felt hours worse than her ride to Hura Falls. 

For an hour, she lay on the empty road, breaths shallow and quick. Her heart suffered the opposite, and beat slow, deep pulses. The velvet of her jacket burned under the sun, but she welcomed the heat on her cold skin. Slipping in and out of consciousness, she listened to the distant call of birds.

Birds flushed from cover. Down the road, a low and loud grumble approached. A high pitched whine, an ungreased wheel of sorts, squealed behind her. She expected her murderer had found her, and she lay on the dirt as a ghost too stubborn to leave her body. Low roars of the unseen engine continued, and she opened her heavy eyes to see nothing except turbulent dead leaves tumbling along the edge of the road. 

“Brienne?” Jaime said, “What foolish thing are you doing? Nora, come.”

Nora crossed in front of her and Brienne’s heart breathed again. His worn boots and trousers stopped half a meter in front of her. It was not Cersei, it was Jaime: her hero. She closed her eyes and mustered every bit of energy to say, “I came to find you.” So many words thrust her back into a lightheaded world.

“Did you fall?”

“No,” she whispered.

“What happened? Sit up, will you?”

“Can’t.”

“Come again? What happened?” He crouched, dirt crunched under his changing force.

Brienne’s eyes painfully widened when he reached for her and pulled her torso upright. Her right arm floundered about for the ground, a safe space which cradled her from death, but Jaime’s free arm caught it and continued to hold her upright. Her chin tucked near her chest, too weak to look straight.

“What happened?” He repeated.

Her breathing struggled, short and fast; the only way she gathered enough oxygen. “Cersei,” she breathed.

“Cersei’s out here? Where is she?” His eyes left hers to look around, but his hands remained still on her arm and shoulder. 

“Poison.”

“What?” He lowered his head to look her in the eye, revealing his frown. “How long ago did you last eat?”

“Tea.”

“When did you last eat?”

“After... breakfast.”

He looked at his watch and let out a loud sigh. “You will be fine, you’ve eaten something bad, I’m sure.” He let her arm fall and his other hand slipped away, only to return for support when she started to slump. “Do you need water?”

He did not understand her, and the crushing defeat made her breathe harder.

“Why can’t you talk to me, you damned woman?”

She closed her eyes, mouth open but full of nothing but rapid breaths. Her mind thought she hallucinated when Jaime’s free hand fussed over the buttons down the center of her jacket. The force of his rough and rushed fingers pressed against her ribs, traveling down until the last button popped undone at the top of her belly. Her corset, still tight and laced in the back, constricted her painful gut, and Jaime reached his hand behind her. His hand wasted no time and pulled the cord without effort, his fingers tugging to loosen the back of her corset. Stomach freed, the pain still lingered. A dizzy cloud hovered over her when she leaned forward and placed both hands on the dirt.

“Cersei is poisoning me,” she said.

He stood and laughed. “With what, her glares? Don’t be ridiculous. Let’s get you home. Can you stand?”

Brienne kept her face a mask and held the tears in the back of her eyes.

Jaime laughed again, seemingly at her suggestion, and the laugh grew louder. “You ought to write a play with that mind of yours. A humorous tale about two liberated women creating problems out of nothing. She’s not the kindest soul I’ve met, I’ll give you that, but she’s more than generous. Were you going to ride all the way to Lannisport to find me?”

Brienne’s nails clenched the dirt.

“Are you upset?”

She wanted to ride her bicycle to King’s Landing.

“Brienne.” His hand reached underneath her chin and tilted it up to look at him. She glared and closed her mouth, breathing deeply through her nose. He said, “You’re colder than the cavern. I can call a doctor. Forget what I’ve said, you’re ill, and I won’t make you worse. You say such ridiculous things I can’t help but find the amusement in them. Leave your bicycle and I’ll drive you back. Nora can follow behind. I’ll get to the bottom of this. I wouldn’t want to eat whatever turned you into jelly. Did you eat fruit?”

She looked away, confronted by his response.

“You did, didn’t you? I suspect that’s the culprit. Here, lean on me.” He scooped his arms underneath her arms and around her back, lifting her to standing. His grunts brushed against her neck. She leaned on him more than she would have liked to.

Together, they shuffled to the car. The effort of climbing into the seat winded her, and she closed her eyes. He sat beside her and twisted out of his frock jacket. “Come closer,” he said, and helped scoot her closer to him. Both arms draped around her, he covered her shoulders with his jacket—his scent haunted her. His left hand smoothed his jacket across her back, but it never left. He continued to welcome her, a place for her head on the inside of his shoulder. “I daresay, you’ve caught a cold on top of it. Stubborn woman, riding out here might have been the worst thing for you to do.”

She said nothing, her hands weak and stupid in her lap. Her mind no longer knew reality, and perhaps she dreamt all of it. She lost either way, for if Cersei did poison her, she could not escape easily. If Cersei did not poison her, she had alienated her own husband further. Clearly, he wanted to hear not another word of Cersei’s behavior.

“I can tell you share zero humor with me,” he said. The car rolled forward, and his right hand left the steering wheel to change the gear. He drove no more than a few miles per hour. The slowness allowed her eyes to look at the trees and grass without blurs. Voice more serious, he asked, “Why do you think Cersei would poison you?”

“Money.”

Jaime’s chest chuckled underneath her chin. “Your ghost will protect your money because you’re as stubborn as steel.”

“Jaime,” she croaked. He knew her well enough to know she hated his humor, in this moment, but he continued to tease her.

“I’m trying to make you feel better. If you truly think Cersei would murder her own family, you’re never going to sleep more than an hour in this house. We can’t have our head electrical engineer with one eye open all night. I need you to be sharp.”

Brienne thought of his gift and the excitement of the power house transmission, planned less than a week ahead. The electricity transmission was a joy to look forward to, but as she struggled through her own dizziness, the anticipation evaporated away. Nora trailed behind the car, barking as they crossed underneath the Casterly Rock archway. They plunged into the forest on either side of the road. A dozen trees, both young and old, competed for light. Brienne wondered if Mrs. Lannister planted any of these trees, so youthful and permanent.

“How did Mrs. Lannister die?” Brienne asked. 

Jaime did not laugh. The car slowed to a stop and Nora veered off to investigate the curled roots of trees and boulders. “She drowned,” he said, voice somber. “You think me so dishonorable to let my sister poison for money? She’s not a child.”

She had offended him by bringing up the awful past. Guilty flushes patched on her neck, and though she hoped he did not see them, he surely felt the heat through his thin linen shirt. Her eyes peered out for Nora, who delicately walked through a patch of white crocus flowers, huddled next to a large oak trunk. His heart raced underneath her ear and she knew she upset him. Brienne lifted herself a few centimeters, blush and all, and said, “I don’t find you dishonorable.”

He swallowed, frowned and looked away, like looking at her might hurt him more than it hurt her. Her weak head returned to his shoulder, and her jaw quivered. She has disunited him, one of her few allies. Jaime’s arm, still wrapped around her shoulders, squeezed her gently—in his own way, an apology.


	13. Chapter 13

She truly felt she would die. For three days, she remained bedridden. When the battery-powered clock struck nine at night, every night, Jaime slipped into bed—no longer missing in the dark. To her surprise, she slept better. His warmth soothed her despite their lack of touch. She tried to mirror her breathing with his, steady and full. Before bed, he summarized his day and when he woke, he explained his daily goals while he shaved his stubble and she found it hard not to stare at him across the room. His loose linen shirt tucked into his trousers. Without his vest, he looked more athletic. He distracted her. Brienne feared Jaime told Cersei about her suspicions, but those suspicions were never mentioned. When he left, Missandei watched her during the day and helped Maevor and Valon bring in meals and water. Brienne hardly ate. Cersei never visited.

Brienne’s strength improved daily, and she and Missandei spent hours talking about Naath, sketching and engineering. They spent an equal amount of time silent in each other’s company, smiling when Nora attempted to itch her ear with her foot. Missandei’s forearm, strong as Brienne’s, helped her walk to the bathroom. Brienne felt like a child, learning to walk with slow steps—her hand always ready to reach for support, whether it be a textured wall or a sharp edge of a sconce. In truth, living in the bed sank her spirits, but Missandei and Nora never left her side during daylight.

“I have a few new sketches to show you,” Missandei said, and her smile grew. Brienne propped herself to a sitting position, and Missandei walked over to the left side of the bed. She set the sketchbook on Brienne’s lap and opened it, although Brienne felt well enough to help. Missandei skipped through five pages and landed on a sketch of workers in the garden. “I outlined it yesterday while Aenela was here with you. I’ve been working on it since. Tell me, what do you think?”

Three workers underneath trees smiled, their teeth white and full. Missandei captured the likeness of the dahlias, crushed in the gardener's hands. Brienne asked, “Are they pulling up dahlias?”

Missandei made an awkward and uneasy face, followed by a sudden smile. “I’m not sure. They said they’re almost finished for the season, and they’re preparing for spring, even now.”

Brienne nodded and gazed at the sketch again, focusing on the technique. Charcoal blurred and swirled throughout the page, and her fingers dared not touch it. 

“This man, the lead gardener, is quite humorous. I wish you could hear his jokes. He’s made me feel quite welcome here, as have you and Mr. Lannister, of course. I must say, when I arrived I was a bit apprehensive.”

“Why?” Brienne thought of Cersei.

“I feel... very often, that I must choose a side, whether it be black or white. No matter the choice I make, I upset people. Whether it’s to visit Naath or marry my cousin, whom I’ve never met. The pressure to choose a side, when surrounded by those of the same color of my skin… It’s quite confusing, both for me and them. They’re servants and I’m... It’s so difficult to not grow vengeful when you see something you want, but it cannot be yours... They were as shocked to see me as I was to see them. A few of them are neighbors to Naath, and some of them come from as far as Yi Ti, but to Westeros, we are all the same aliens. Not all of them speak Valyrian well, but you can see kindness in a face without speaking.”

Missandei paused, her eyes fixed on her sketchbook, lost in memory. “Despite my wealth, or the appearance of it, some people treat me and your servants the same. And yet, does money outweigh the horror of a man marrying a woman of color? If I choose not to marry, I won’t inherit what is lawfully mine. How is this a choice? Freedom? The servants and I have our freedom, a form of it, I suppose. I did not know the previous servants well, as I visited many years ago as a child, but I presume it is not as difficult for them to find employment elsewhere based on their complexion or language. I remember the previous workers looked like, well... Translucent…” Missandei’s eyes met Brienne’s. “I feel like I can trust you.”

“You can.”

Missandei closed her eyes for a long moment, her lips pressed thick together. She shook her head, forced a weak smile and whispered, “I do not want to marry a man I do not love. To avoid poverty, I am forced to.” Her voice slowly returned to normal, but the tortured tone lingered. “The choice I am given is not a choice. And these workers…” Missandei looked at the door as if someone might be listening. “Mr. Lannister pays them well, but one well paying employer doesn’t end suffering. If they wanted to leave, where would they go?”

“Do some of them want to leave? Tell me, you must tell me.”

“Forgive me, but this house is not…”

“This house is horrible.” Brienne gave a low whisper. “Sometimes I wish it never existed. What do they say? Why would they want to leave?”

“They’re haunted.”

They shared a frown. Missandei leaned closer and flipped through two pages of the sketchbook. In Brienne’s lap, the page showed another charcoal sketch, this one much darker than the last. She recognized the hallway, with its thorns and ancient ornaments. The angular outline surrounded a standing woman, half skeleton and half skin. Her ribs showed through and her lips disappeared, revealing a snarling set of teeth. She faced forward and held a baby, more skull than anything else.

“A shadow?” Brienne whispered.

“Shadows can’t be red.” Missandei caved her shoulders forward. “At night, I hear noises throughout the house. Ghosts live here, they say. They’ve seen them. I was worried a ghost harmed you.”

Brienne’s jaw clenched. She thought back to her life in King’s Landing, how simple life was. No one behaved like Cersei or Jaime, so singular and suspicious. Brienne trusted almost no one, except Missandei. Perhaps Mrs. Lannister poisoned Brienne as retaliation, but Cersei prepared the tea, not a ghost; and Cersei had smiled. After long days, lost in Brienne’s thoughts, it made sense why Jaime found her suggestion outrageous. Cersei was Jaime’s sister, and he possessed a form of family pride that rivaled her own. He would never believe Brienne until she proved Cersei wanted to kill her.

“It was no ghost,” Brienne said. She promised herself to never let it happen again.

“You’re looking much better today. Did the doctor visit last night?” Missandei asked.

“I’ve seen no doctor.”

“Oh, I see.” Missandei seated herself fully on the chair beside the bed. “I’m sorry to have frightened you. I shouldn’t be discussing such things.”

Fear did not paralyze her; their bonding empowered her. She thought she understood Missandei’s troubles once, and now she learned they were entirely different. Brienne offered a smile. “You’ve done no such thing and no harm. You are a great friend. You are always welcome here, even after you return home, and please don’t feel the need to apologize. You’ve been in this mess of a room for days now, why don’t you take your lunch or the rest of daylight to sketch where you please? I’ll be fine by myself.” 

“I—Very well. Call for Aenela if you need me, please. Maevor is making a special treat for lunch, but don’t tell him I told you.” Missandei swooped to kiss Brienne on her forehead. “You’re a brick of a friend, you know that?”

“As are you.”

Misandei walked halfway out the room before she realized she left her sketchbook. Brienne handed it off with a smirk. She loved to see Missandei happy. The bravery to bring up Missandei’s tryst never surfaced, but it did not matter. Missandei was not her first friend to harbor forbidden love.

Brienne browsed through her engineering books. Their covers still smelled of cured leather. She found a page about aluminum’s conductivity and smiled. Maevor brought in a set of crab sandwiches for lunch, a delicious reminder of a popular dish in King’s Landing. 

She fell asleep with her belly full only to wake to the sound of rustling. Brienne opened her left eye to see Nora wagging her tail and marching around the room. Cheek squished against the pillow, she heard Jaime whisper, “Calm down!” to Nora. Brienne smirked to herself and could not admit he already woke her.

His footsteps approached the bed and she closed her eyes, feigning sleep. She felt him lift her textbooks off the bed. One book slipped out from under her hand in a slow and deliberate pull. Her fingers, more alive than ever, screamed to reach forward and hold his hand, but her mind considered herself foolish.

Three knocks on the door made her heart sink; it was surely Cersei. The evil woman had yet to visit Brienne and Brienne preferred it that way.

“Maevor, shh,” Jaime said, his voice whispered.

“Grēza iksis kesīr,” Maevor whispered.

“Kesīr.”

Maevor crept over and set something large on Jaime’s side of the bed, light enough to not sink the mattress. Footsteps left the room, quiet as possible, and she heard Jaime let out a soft chuckle. His hand wiped across the object on the bed, and when she heard tissue paper, she knew it was her dress from Lannisport. Mortified that he might glimpse at her dress, Brienne snapped awake and jolted for the box—her newfound and only attempt to impress him. All possibility for failure and mockery flooded her mind. Her hand slapped onto his, halfway in the opened box. He froze, eyes wide and lips parted. 

“Don’t, it’s a surprise,” she said.

“Surprise me? You already have. You still plan on attending the ball?”

“I’m feeling better.”

“I can feel that.” His hand curved under her hand’s pressure. 

She yanked her hand back to her side. His hand, teasing her, remained on the tissue in the half-opened white box, almost a meter on each side and a dozen centimeters high. Brienne snatched the box while she propped herself to sitting and placed the box on her broad lap. “I warn you, you’ll get the surprise of your life when you see me in this dress. I’ve never worn this color before.”

“I’m sure I shall,” he said, soon smirking. “I’m glad to see you as yourself again.”

Brienne stared at the box. Her hands cradled it. He continued to care for her, despite her words about Cersei.

“You want to see it now, don’t you?”

“I—I’m glad you’re home,” Brienne said. She tried her best to breathe through the growing heat up her neck.

His single chuckle gave her a sense he did not believe her. “I’ll never cross between a woman’s love for her dress. I’ll be in the library.” 

Brienne smiled, and her heart beat fast for the first time in days. Finally, she felt herself again, and the fear of death escaped her mind. She wished she could recreate her first dance with Jaime, and hold him closer, dance with him longer; no one would protest. Everyone would welcome them as Mr. and Mrs. Lannister. She grew so excited of the upcoming ball she nearly forgot about her work.

The day of the ball, Missandei readied in Brienne’s room with Aenela and Missandei’s maid. The four of them forbade Jaime to enter as they dressed. Missandei’s maid blushed with excitement, ready to return home from this gloom of a house and share a delicious feast. Aenela chuckled like a schoolgirl and sneaked in a bottle of white wine to share.

The four of them sipped and walked on their tip-toes while Missandei slipped into her beautiful pink ball gown. Her bodice extended over her hip and bustle underneath the skirt. Her short sleeves draped over her feminine frame, and her maid helped adorn her with pearl jewelry along her neck and ears. Long white gloves slipped onto her arms.

Missandei translated Aenela’s Valyrian, although their shared bursts of furtive laughter needed no explanation. The four of them reached into Brienne’s box and unveiled a glorious crimson gown. With its endless loops, pleating and details, the dress fit perfectly. The pleated train dragged on the floor just like the sketch. Brienne found it hard to stand still while Aenela’s fingers clasped the dress in the front. Once finished, she stepped back and said, “Issa gevie.”

“It’s beautiful,” Missandei said.

Misandei’s maid said, “A dress fit for a queen.”

Brienne shuffled to the looking glass and did not recognize herself, a woman of grace and confidence. Her waist cinched in and her broad shoulders accented further with wide loops along the sleeves. The long, red dress gave her more height, more power, and she felt she could conquer the world. She smiled a new and slow smile. 

“Ladies,” Jaime’s voice asked through the closed door. “The carriages are out front. The Marbrands have arrived to whisk us away. You know how I feel about horse excrement on my driveway. We’ll be down when you’re ready.”

“Shh,” Aenela said. They waited until they heard footsteps before they fussed over Brienne’s hair. Three pins and braids curled her hair up and away from her dress. She slipped flattened dancing shoes on her feet and paraded around the room, dress train dragging across the floor. Brienne’s lips twisted, unable to resist the rising energy within her. She could not wait to see Jaime’s reaction.

A singular nod indicated for Aenela to open the door. After she opened the doors, Missandei walked out, peered over the rails and looked back with an encouraged smile. Brienne stepped forward, and through her tall gaze, she peeked over. Near the entrance of the home, in the open foyer, stood Addam in evening wear, Darlessa swathed in a green garment and Jaime in his over-frock coat. She smiled at the lack of Cersei, and all three of them so wrapped in conversation they did not look to the bedroom or the galleries. 

Brienne whispered to Missandei, “Distract them when you go down and announce me as Mrs. Lannister, will you?”

Missandei nodded as Brienne let out a timid breath. She urged her friend forward and waited. A minute passed and she felt her heart, fluttering absurdly, could bear it no longer. Her feet carried her forward and around to the start of the stairs. Missandei managed to gather everyone’s backs towards the stairs, and her eyes briefly glanced at Brienne while she tip-toed, step by step. Brienne stopped midway down the stairs and toyed with the crimson train of the dress, forcing it to drip down the steps like liquid.

She waited.

“Mrs. Lannister,” Missandei announced, and the patient crowd of three turned around.

Brienne waited for claps or shouts of excitement, like the maids or her friend, no more than an hour before. No one clapped, no one moved. They all stared until Darlessa uttered a little cry and placed her hand to her mouth. 

Brienne forced a smile and looked to Jaime. “How do you do, Mr. Lannister?” She sounded different, more confident than she felt; but his face was ashen white… petrified.

She hesitated a step down the stairs, unable to assess why they all stared at her like people in a trance. Missandei, behind them, frowned and looked around as clueless as Brienne felt.

Jaime stepped forward, eyes never leaving Brienne’s face. “What do you think you are wearing?” he growled. His green eyes burned red and quickly looked up to the gallery and back to her face again.

“It’s an ancestor—I saw in the sketchbook,” Brienne said, stumbling on her own whispered words.

“Go and change. It doesn’t matter what you put on, evening frock, anything will do,” he said. The creases beside his lips sharpened, and his neck bulged. “What are you standing there for?”

Brienne turned, pulled on the miles of fabric and ran to her bedroom. Missandei hurried after her. Both maids had gone, but the corridor framed a standing figure. It was Cersei—her loathsome look turned triumphant. Dressed in her teal gown, she smiled at Brienne. She did this. Turning, Brienne escaped into her bedroom. 

Her chest heaved, much like the week before, and nothing could explain Cersei’s motivation further. She wanted to humiliate her. Brienne tore at the hooks and buttons of her dress. Missandei knocked, and she and the other two maids hurried in. Once blushed, Missandei’s maid burst into tears, sure she ruined the moment herself. Aenela remained quiet and helped undress Brienne’s bodice.

“I think we’d like to be alone, please. Would you be a dear and tell them to wait a bit longer?” Missandei asked her maid. The woman wiped her face, agreed and left.

Brienne postponed her tears, and the sight of the red dress peeling off did not give her a sense of freedom. She remained caged. The past, this house and Cersei were the same, starving Brienne until she became a standing mixture of bones and blood. 

“Are you all right? You look so pale,” Missandei said. She reached out to hold Brienne’s bare shoulder. 

“It’s the light.”

“Addam says your dress must have been a terrible mistake; that you couldn’t possibly have known.”

“Known what?”

“Darlessa said this dress is what the previous Mrs. Lannister wore at the last fancy dress ball. The same color, the same design.”

Brienne swallowed. She brought her nails to her teeth and tore at them.

“Do you want me to stay here, with you?” Missandei asked.

Brienne stopped at once and looked to her friend, innocent as she once was. Brienne could not admit she found Cersei dangerous. She could not stand the heartbreak if Missandei disagreed with her. “No, let’s see you home. Help me with that blue frock, if you will.”

Jaime’s blazed eyes burned into her mind while she dressed. Addam and Darlessa’s blank stares behind him hurt far less than his glare, passionate and thunderous. Did he know Cersei likely killed Mrs. Lannister? People drowned in tea the same as water.

Once dressed, she walked down with Missandei, side by side. Instead of repairing what little bond remained with Jaime, Brienne snapped their connection in two. She had pleased Cersei instead, who chose not to attend the ball. Outside, the sea sighed in its shivering air, and Brienne felt every bit of breeze in her thin dress, not meant at all for a ball in autumn. She rode with Missandei and her servant in their own separate carriage, bags and luggage strapped to the back. On three occasions, Brienne considered pleading with Missandei to stay. She needed rescuing, protection and a friend. The carriage bounced equally to Jaime’s car.

Missandei frowned and said, “I will miss Casterly Rock. I should visit again soon.”

“Don’t miss the house. Miss the people who live in it, who cherish you and who appreciate you.”

They arrived well before the ball started, and Missandei whisked Brienne for a tour around the Marbrand mansion, an ideal representation of classic architecture: green lawns, trimmed bushes, bright walls and elegant detail. Darlessa even had electrical hookups for an electric car, but Brienne managed no smile. Servants prepared waxed candles along the terrace, and Missandei’s eyes brightened. Brienne understood their fevered, excited phrases while they positioned flowers and the final touches of the dance floor. Missandei’s delightful hospitality helped to calm Brienne while they gazed at a painted portrait of Missandei’s mother, copper haired and ghost-white. 

Night drew closer, and the air changed. Daylight and Missandei’s smiles died away once guests arrived, who were full of laughter and joy. Brienne did not see Jaime, and it crushed her spirits.

“I fear no one will want to dance with me,” Missandei said. The two of them stood at the bottom of the stairs as people entered the glowing foyer.

“Your love, wherever he is, would. He would, if he were here. I hear the tango is quite nice, but we’ve no tango here,” Brienne said. Her fingers continued to itch.

Missandei winced and drew in a deep breath. Both of them prepared for a loveless evening, a blank canvas turned into colored gowns, rouged cheekbones and waltzes. The two paired together and avoided the dance floor through their magnetism to the supper table. Brienne nibbled on crackers, far too sweet and melty. She wanted water, but her lips trembled when she sipped it.

One of the servants dropped a tray of ice in the middle of the foyer, and Brienne knew his expression. She felt it—a feeling of perpetual embarrassment one could never erase from memory.

For the first time in her long evening of horror, she saw Jaime move through the crowd like another host, seeing to everyone’s comfort and supplying them with drink. Addam, tipsy and jolly, shouted from across the floor, now rich with dancers. The band played, and couples bobbed like marionettes, across the great hall and back again. 

An older gentleman asked Missandei to dance, and with pained expression, she turned to Brienne for an essence of approval. Brienne masked a smile, and the two dancers twirled away. Within a minute, Jaime stood beside Brienne as a wooden and silent prop. He smiled, but it did not feel genuine, and he did not smile at her. When people did not look, he rubbed his chin, splayed his hand in mid-air or squeezed them behind his back. The dreaded memory of Mrs. Lannister affected him, and he thought Brienne was cruel, like she mocked him. Nothing pained her heart more, not even tea.

He never spoke to Brienne at the ball and never touched her. They stood beside each other, but they were not together. They were two performers, not acting with one another. With Missandei gone and the Marbrands transfixed in their crowd, Jaime and Brienne endured solitude alone. As soon as the first guest said their goodbyes, Jaime called for a carriage. Brienne slipped away to find Missandei. Several minutes later, Brienne found her outside what Brienne thought to be the kitchen. Servants bustled in and out.

“I’m leaving. We’re leaving,” Brienne said, unable to dislodge the lump in her throat. She did not want to return to home, the horrid place.

“Please, stay well. Do you know where to find me, if you need to?”

“I do.”

They hugged. Their shared smiles dropped the moment Brienne turned, both in their own version of heartbreak. 

Jaime waited outside the home, near candled torches, averting his eyes away the moment she appeared in his sights. They climbed in the carriage, which felt constricting and cold. Trees blocked the moonlight, and their carriage lost its light, blinding her into darkness. Brienne dragged her thumb against her cuticles. Neither of them said a word, but her heart screamed its apology, but he never heard it. 

Maevor and Aenela greeted them both and said nothing. Brienne walked up the stairs, along the open gallery and into the bedroom. 

Aenela already lit the candelabra and left Brienne alone to undress into her nightgown. She stared at the bed, untouched and quilt flattened. Her lips pursed to blow out the candles, smoke soon curling. Her weary legs climbed into bed. Pain swelled at the small of her back. Clean sheets welcomed her, and she wondered how long Jaime would be. He had slept with her every night for the past week. 

Trickling in, moonlight glistened through the half-drawn curtain. She rotated on her side and watched the clock across the room, large enough for her to see the hand move around the dial. It came to the hour and it passed again, starting fresh on its journey. Jaime did not come.


	14. Chapter 14

She fell asleep at eleven and woke at midnight. No longer safe because of Cersei’s plots, her eyes blinked and accommodated to the low light of the room. Jaime’s side of the bed lay bare and empty, and through her blurred eyes, she saw no one in the room with her—not even Nora. Tired of waiting, Brienne slipped out of bed. She did not care to look for Jaime, she intended to find out what happened to Mrs. Lannister.

As she lit the candles on the candelabra, she thought of what Jaime might think if he found her exploring. His judgement would not scare her. Their relationship, whatever little bond they created over months, fell apart within a week due to Cersei. He would not believe her if she blamed Cersei for the dress, and he might not believe her if she described Cersei’s smile, a smile of revenge, when she stood in the corridor. Perhaps Cersei envied Brienne for attending the ball. Brienne did not know why Cersei chose not to attend, but it gave her more motivation to ruin her evening, ruin Jaime’s evening. Brienne received all the blame. With Jaime’s poor reaction to the poisoned tea, she did not want to relive his belittling mockery again, no matter the type of apology. She needed proof, proof so undeniable, Cersei’s brother could not deny her guilt.

In her nightgown, Brienne held her candelabra and walked out of her room. The moonlight no longer poured into the gaping hole in the ceiling. Leaves still rustled in darkness. She stepped downstairs. Whenever the floor trembled under her step, she yanked her foot back to prevent creaking wood.

Her exploration started in the kitchen, which was dark and cold. Dishes and silverware for the morning’s breakfast filled the center table, and Brienne roamed around the counters with her solitary light. Porcelain plates and delicate glass filled a glass-walled cabinet along with heaps of fine spoons of every variety, forks and knives. Once, many years ago, this place would have been a wonder, a beautiful beacon of classic elegance. Only the most durable pieces survived the weather of time, such as these spoons or the wild forest outside these walls. Brienne reached in to grab a twisted handle knife, its pointed blade shaped into a fiddle pattern. The empty fireplace sighed a large breeze, startling her to turn around and guard her space with the knife. Fear did not allow her to laugh at how foolish she might have looked, standing there in a thin nightgown with her half-dull knife.

Nothing came forward except wind, an eerie reminder of the sea. She searched the counters for the small tea cabinet Cersei used, and at the end of the kitchen was the tray, kettle, cups and cabinet. Brienne rushed closer and fussed with the three drawers in the cabinet, all no larger than the size of her hand. Two of the three drawers opened and regular curled tea leaves filled them, but the third drawer refused to open. Metal clanked when she pulled on the button knob. She cursed herself for not taking the tea leaves Cersei left in the morning room. Every other time, Cersei kept her strainer and leaves under tight protection. It made no sense why a woman so infatuated with service would insist on making tea herself. If Brienne broke open the drawer, Cersei would have evidence against her intrusion; or worse, Cersei would blame servants.

Brienne bit her lip, set the lights down and tipped the edge of the knife carefully into the keyhole. Metal dragged on metal, but it did not open.

Someone stepped into the kitchen. She whirled around and flung the knife behind her back, flat and resting against her nightgown. Back straight, she saw Missandei’s lover, and he entered with a bright flashlight in hand. He stopped at the sight of her, his thick eyebrows curled and focused on her. She stared into the same brown eyes she saw during Missandei’s tryst.

“I—Please don’t tell anyone,” Brienne whispered. 

He said nothing while he looked around them. Her heart cried out to confess more, she could not handle harboring her secrets any longer, but they would not understand each other. He stepped forward. She tensed.

His dark hand flipped the flashlight towards him as he extended it for her to take. Brienne stared. This man’s expression insisted she take it. After overcoming her own hesitation, she accepted it. He pointed up, out and towards the galleries.

With her knife and his flashlight, she left the kitchen. She saw, in his face, a look of encouragement rather than scorn. He inspired her to explore, and she would.

Brienne pressed the glass of the flashlight against her hand as she walked in order to dim the light. Her hand glowed red so she switched it off. Darkened eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and her gentle steps carried her quietly up the stairs. 

Avoiding her room, she tip-toed through the corridors, around corners and into Mrs. Lannister’s old room. Darkness blocked everything. She flicked the flashlight on and shadows disappeared in its tunnel of light. No one was inside but herself, and for once, she wished she could speak with Mrs. Lannister. Despite others’ emphatic belief in ghosts, Brienne knew she could not talk with the dead; thus, she turned to the dead’s belongings. The perfumes, all half-full, smelled of lilac and azaleas. Mrs. Lannister’s brush, without a single hair on it, revealed no information, nothing at all. Brienne’s flashlight brightened the looking glass, and her heart stumbled in her chest. Her own face angled in harsh messes and shadows, nose bigger and eyes no longer sparkling. Why did Brienne do this? 

She did not want to pry, and she frowned. Solitude twisted the mind on itself, and she never felt so lonely. Missandei had left her side no more than a few hours ago, and it burned. Renly, Loras and Olenna never wrote to her, after her five letters out to them, and their rejection tasted like salt on a gashed tongue.

Yet, her face appeared different… thinner, almost. If Cersei had murdered Mrs. Lannister for her wealth and planned to murder Brienne, she would not stop. Brienne’s mind, however disgusted with her own behavior, could not have invented Cersei’s intentions. Brienne intended to survive.

Flashlight on the vanity before her, Brienne opened the drawers. She explored through contained powders, oils, combs and small squares of linen. Each alien item gave her a new sense of insanity, like she never belonged here. Mrs. Lannister may curse Brienne dead for rummaging through her things, but at the back of the top drawer, she pulled out a framed photograph the size of her palm. She held a photograph of a baby, sitting in a large white gown in a wooden chair. Her mouth dropped. She set the frame and flashlight down to open the frame, and on the back of the photograph, in curved text, it read the year: 1897.

Since the two years this photograph was taken, this baby would be a young child now. No one mentioned a baby. If Jaime had a child with his light hair and high cheeks… and he said nothing of it. Brienne’s gnarled fingers placed the photograph back in its frame, tucking it into the back of the drawer. Something crunched. She suppressed a gasp and reached farther into the drawer, retrieving an opened letter, posted from Wendish Town, specifically a place called Meadows. A stamp, half-faded, pressed the year 1883. Brienne slipped out a tiny letter.

_Jaime,_

_Come at once. Father placed me here in this prison. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. Come at once._

Letters curved, but they revealed no author. Brienne turned the envelope over to examine the stamp. In 1883, Jaime and would have been four-and-ten, far too young for marriage, and his sister, a twin, would be the same age. If Jaime withheld the existence of a child, would he hide another sibling? She thought of the painting she found in a closet weeks ago. Jaime, too, kept secrets.

She returned to her room quietly when she heard a singular yell from an upper floor. It sounded like Cersei, thick with venom and hatred. Brienne considered confronting Cersei, or at the very least, defending the servant under her wrath. Servants needed her protection, but the shivered fear inside of Brienne convinced her to retreat, and her stumbling, tired legs agreed. 

The kind servant had returned her candelabra to her nightstand, but he was not there. She wished she knew his name. Nora curled on the rug as if she had been there all night. Jaime’s side of the bed remained untouched. She hid the flashlight in her nightstand drawer, and if Aenela found either the flashlight or the knife she tucked under her pillow, she trusted Aenela’s secrecy. 

Brienne woke to daylight. Maevor, silent as ever, laid Jaime’s razor and shaving bowl, but no one appeared to use it. Rubbing her eyes, she observed his side of the bed, flat as it looked hours earlier. He never came to bed, and his firm rejection of her stunned her quiet. A small part of her hoped he would lose his crossness throughout the night, and they would be friends again. When Aenela tipped her head in through the double doors, and with one scared look, she revealed the house remembered yesterday.

Aenela helped Brienne dress in her long sleeved pale pink dress. A dark bow tied at the neck and draped down the front. Brienne never wanted to wear red again. 

She arrived at the dining room to see Cersei and Jaime, both sitting, stop their conversation the moment Brienne entered.

Cersei, with her plate empty and teacup full, played with a singular ring on her right hand. Her eyes narrowed at Jaime, who ignored both of them. Brienne broadened her shoulders as she approached the table of food. She picked scrambled eggs and wondered if Jaime knew Cersei planned the dress all along. Surely, he would be angry with her. Unwilling to start trouble, or assume wrongly, Brienne walked to her seat and avoided all eye contact.

Silence continued, and she felt eyes on her. She glanced at Jaime, who was quiet and brooding, but his entire look changed. His hair, once long and luscious, was trimmed, and the length was barely two centimeters. It curled the same as it did before and it defined his face in a more masculine light. Compared to previous mornings, he kept his stubble, the color of burnt gold. 

“It’s hideous, isn’t it?” Cersei asked.

Brienne stopped her stare and looked at her eggs, saying nothing.

Cersei sneered and said, “It will take years to regrow.”

“I’m thankful I have hair at all, considering the barren fate of many men,” Jaime said, his bitter tone more annoyed than angry. 

Brienne limited her expectations of his behavior. While she wanted to fall into his arms, hold him and move across the world to escape this place, she had no idea if he would accept or refuse her. Brienne placed her fork carefully placed eggs in her mouth without hitting her teeth.

A finished fork clanked on Jaime’s plate. He set his napkin alongside it. “For the first transmission tomorrow, I need to visit Lannisport to round up a few reporters.” His voice sounded rather different, more tense and stern. She wondered if his new appearance influenced her interpretation. While Valon slipped his hand in to take the plate, Jaime stared at the ceiling. “You’re coming with me.”

Brienne stared, even after his eyes finally came down to meet hers. He meant _her._

Cersei’s head tilted to the side, her brows creased and low. “She’s been paraded well enough, especially after feeling so ill. Let the girl stay.”

“She’s here to work and work she shall. We’re leaving now.”

Half of her eggs remained on her plate; Jaime never cared to see if she finished. Brienne swallowed while he left the room, and Cersei’s eyes followed him out. It took no more than a minute for Brienne to leave the room, give Nora a quick ear scratch and join Jaime near his car. 

If he troubled himself with her opinion, she would still choose to leave with him. His averting eyes, however, gave her little hope of cooperation. As he drove, he said nothing—no bursts of song, no laughs and no sudden detours to view a childhood landmark. She once fooled herself that she preferred quiet car rides, but now she knew how truly painful silence felt. Her mind thought twice as fast, obsessed over how he thought of her. She glanced over to see his eyes focused on the road, his fingers clenched on the steering wheel. His thoughts consumed his every breath as much as her own. The gloss over his eyes shrunk her heart, because he did not consider the future: a place of hope and progress. No, in this moment, he lived in the past... to a time when he had a loving, beautiful wife and a child. Brienne brought neither beauty nor children. Her largest skill appeared to be breaking his heart further. She had never felt so guilty, and it was all because of that _dress._

In Lannisport, his eyes continued to ignore her, but he welcomed her to join him to discuss plans with the paper’s illustrator and reporter. Brienne declined while he turned off the car. He never responded. She said she would work in the substation, five minutes down the street. She waited for him to glance at her, but he chose to fuss with a pile of papers instead. Helping herself out of the car, she hopped onto rather wet ground, a sludged mixture of mud and rain. Her weight sank into it with a squish. As she scanned the road for a dryer place to walk, a septa distracted her. The big-boned woman scowled from across the street, right at Brienne and Jaime. She harbored no shame in her glare, and Jaime walked inside the building, missing the septa’s expression entirely. Why did she scowl so harshly?

Brienne clutched her sketchbook closer to her chest and crossed the street, eyes fixed on the septa’s. Dressed in white linen, her plain features followed Brienne as she approached.

“Good day, S...” Brienne said, but she did not know this woman’s name.

“You may call me Septa Unella.”

Brienne winced a poor smile and squeezed her fingers closer. “My name is Mrs. Brienne Lannister, and I recently moved to Lannisport from King’s Landing.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.” Septa Unella dropped her scowl, but wrinkles remained between her brows and outside her mouth. “It has been many moons since I’ve welcomed Mr. Lannister, or any Lannister to a sept service.”

Heat poured onto Brienne’s face like a sudden sunburn. “I do apologize for that, Septa Unella, it is not our intention. We are very close to bringing a considerable amount of power to Lannisport, and I must ask, is the sept planned to receive electricity transmission tomorrow?”

“No one has approached the septon, as far as I am aware.”

“Oh, well I would love to speak with him about bringing electricity to the sept.”

“He is quite busy at the moment. Confessions take time.” Her eyes scanned over Brienne, along her shoulders and face. Unella’s expression softened. Quieter, she said, “You are nothing like her.”

Brienne stilled while the septa closed her eyes. With nothing to say, Brienne remained quiet, her palms sweating in chilly air. Another septa, younger and eyes more innocent than a child, exited the store beside them and stepped beside Unella. She looked at Brienne once before looking at her own feet.

“Only through confession and true repentance may our immortal souls be saved. Good day, Mrs. Lannister,” Septa Unella said.

Unella’s words lingered in the air, and Brienne forgot to curtsy before they walked away. A trumpeting horse snapped Brienne out of her perplexed stupor, and she thought of her primary goal: the post.

Brienne clutched the sketchbook in one hand and lifted the hem of her dress while she walked through Lannisport’s streets. To her great pleasure, the turn of the corner revealed dryer roads and walkways. She crossed beside carriages, gasoline and steam powered cars. Despite the perpetual whiff of excrement, the skies opened wide and large for a welcomed sea breeze, much more pleasant than King’s Landing. Once she walked by food stands, the smell of hot oil and fish reminded her of her empty stomach. The sight of the eel pie food stand, however, gave her mouth a sour reminder of the past.

She slowed and stepped closer, tempted to buy several pies only to throw them back with earnest and interest. No one stood in line, and three men behind the counter joked, thick with laughter. They caught sight of her but continued to chuckle. Her own shoulders caved at the thought of confronting them...

“Can I help you, _Madam_?”

Brienne pivoted left in the direction of the post. Her heart cowered away deep in her chest. Planked, wooden floors, creaked under her hurried feet and sharpened around a corner. She found herself plunged into one of the more populated streets of the city. Many families, workmen and carriages filed into their respective lines. Not a bit of green crossed her view except the occasional dress or hat. This reminded her of home.

“End Lannisport slums! Save the city’s poor! Sign the petition!” A man shouted across the street. He waved a handful of papers in the air while most walked without a single look towards him.

Feeling like a small child lost in King’s Landing streets, Brienne stood aside while people brushed along, hastened in their journey. No one stopped to chat. No one made eye contact. Her eyes observed the diversity of people, a dozen in glorious frocks and a few women in bloomers. Umbrellas twirled above heads. The poor and unfortunate blended in with the surroundings. Their clothes matched the dirt and wooden buildings. Filth darkened their cheeks and hands. One mother walked through with five duckling children, all waddling behind her. 

Brienne marched towards the man, an older fox-faced gentleman in a simple jacket and trousers. He stared a bit when she approached.

“Are you a woman of the Faith?” he asked.

“I am a woman of equality.”

“Westerosi people are living in filth, and it’s high time we abolish harmful slums and laws.”

“And what of those who are not Westorosi?”

“Well…”

“Are they not included in this?”

“No... Very much the opposite, my lady. Those from foreign lands live exclusively in the slags.”

“Slags?”

“The poorest slums of Lannisport, east of the city. Close to no plumbing and no power.”

Brienne stepped closer, took his sheet of half-filled signatures and signed her name. “Can you give me an empty sheet for signatures? I know a great deal of people who might have an interest in signing.”

“I—Yes, my lady, that would help immensely.”

Amidst a shared nod, she slipped an empty sheet in her sketchbook and the man, once loud, became quiet. He took a moment to look at her signature, and once he glanced up, the corner of his mouth twitched into a tiny smile.

For Brienne, his smile was not enough, and the guilt of ignoring the existence of the slags ate at her. The endless suspicion and trouble surrounding gave her a new purpose, not only to save herself, but to save others. Adding power to Lannisport was a true and marvel innovation, but it was one of many issues. She _needed_ to serve the underserved. Even if Cersei attempted to kill her again, Brienne could not _leave_ her promises to bring power, to make a name for herself.

She walked on, chin up and shoulders wide enough for others to step aside as she came to the post. Her fingers jittered at the touch of a pen and paper. A small part of her begged to turn around and forget her sudden descent into risk. But the more she pulled on the loose thread of mystery, the more the information shocked her. She would not stop until she unraveled the entire truth, thus, she addressed her envelope to Meadows in Wendish Town.

Her chest burst into a frenzied loop, fearful of catching Jaime behind her shoulder. She dated the top, taking two seconds to curve and connect each letter. Partway through, she tempted herself to apologize for the poor paper and ink, but she decided against it. She needed to write his words, not hers.

_Dear Sir or Madam,_

_I am inquiring more information about a period of time in and around the year 1883. We discovered a few discrepancies in our bookkeeping, and I would like to know if any charges or deposits were made in the name of Lannister, if so, by whom._

_Please address your response to Mrs. Brienne Lannister, who receives my letters._

_Forever appreciative,_

_Jaime Lannister  
Casterly Rock_

Brienne brought the envelope to the tip of her tongue. It tasted sweet.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: In this chapter, Jaime uses a similar quote from Charles Baker, the engineer who built Snoqualmie Falls Power House.

The day of Hura Falls’ first power transmission, Aenela helped Brienne dress early in the morning. Brienne’s fingers buzzed against her palm and golden dress, and she wished she had lemon to dip her nails into. The acerbic taste discouraged her from biting as a child, but there was no lemon in the house. Jaime, too, glowed with a quiet, nervous energy as they climbed the mountain in his car. His chest thrust forward in the driver’s seat, and his fingers squeezed into fists on the steering wheel.

When they arrived at the top of Hura Falls, the sight of the waterfall pouring out of the sunrise gave Brienne a brief moment of comfort. Her father would have loved to see this, and she imagined his smile, even if they failed. One misconnected wire or mistake would destroy months’ worth of work, and an enormous amount of money would be washed away, forever lost. Wasted time and guilt, however, caused her to hesitate more than wasted money. She thought of thousands of people at home, in their dwellings or at work, waiting for a small bulb to flash on. Jaime spent countless hours promoting their power to Lannisport, and more than one hundred buildings agreed to switch their power to his—a third of the cost when compared to steam power. Dozens of other buildings added wires and circuits due to the promise of cheaper electricity. The thought of this power house’s failure did not solely bear Jaime and Brienne’s passion, it bore Lannisport’s inhabitants’ fate as a whole.

The calming nature of the river and waterfall made her worries of unsolved secrets disappear. Cersei elected to stay home, her preferred place of worship, in order to handle potential reporters or visitors. Brienne appreciated the fresh air without Cersei’s heavy stares.

Jaime rambled in Valyrian to his thirty workers, some with large bags under their eyes and still in their simple pajamas. They all returned to their houses down the river, and without a word, Jaime and Brienne separated. Electricians had prepared signs of bulbs, reading “1899” and “Hura Falls,” but they remained unlit. Each letter and number were filled with unlit bulbs, and she imagined them bright and clear. She double checked every wire her eyes and fingers could grasp in the transformer house, but after some time, she fussed over waste baskets and bits of dirt caked on the floor. This transformer house, visible to the public, needed to be spotless. 

She gasped when a well-dressed gentleman knocked on a window. The sun beamed behind his waving hand. Brienne masked a smile and welcomed him, followed by ten or so other men. With no chance and no choice to hide away, she introduced herself as Mrs. Brienne Lannister.

“Quite the supporting wife, I daresay,” one said.

“How long have you two been married?” another asked.

The once silent transformer house was filled with men’s voices. Those who did not wait for her answer explored around to take a look for themselves.

“A few months, I believe,” she said. If they gave her a moment to think, she could have given them the exact number of days.

“I’m afraid long enough to never see your husband?” Several reporters laughed.

“Actually…” she started, but their smiles grew along with her own doubt.

On the far side of the building, alongside a photographer with his handheld brownie camera, Jaime entered. He glared over the heaps of transformers. He said, “Far too many gentlemen in one room, if you ask me.”

The small crowd of reporters laughed and turned to see him. Brienne forced herself to look away at the sight of Jaime’s charming smile; it made her think of nothing else. She glanced to see if any of the reporters were watching her reaction, but they were all thick in conversation with Jaime. Perhaps they had already asked what they wanted to ask of her. In a stranger’s eye, it was clear Jaime and Brienne’s marriage had failed. She thought of how easy it might be to try and fool the public into thinking their marriage was a success. It could not be terribly difficult, and she found it would be bearable if she lived in one corner of Casterly Rock and Jaime in the other, so long as the outside world would never know. If he never looked at her again, never _touched_ her, never spoke to her except on matters of necessity, she believed she could bear it if no one else knew. But Cersei would know.

It did not matter that she grew to love him because he did not love her. Whenever she spent time with him outside of Casterly Rock, his passion for engineering and serving others overwhelmed her. But it did not matter. They did not get on. They were not companions, and they were not suited for each other. She was far too homely, naive and stubborn for him. Her love for him, so repressed and uncontrollable, was not the love he needed. 

“Ask her,” Jaime said, “This is far more her territory than my own.”

Brienne blinked to find four reporters waiting for her answer. Jaime waited with them, his smile faint. She breathed through an oncoming blush and said, “In truth, I only helped a few electricians complete their work.”

“What exactly does this transformer do?”

“Well, our generators produce alternating current…” She paused to let them write furious notes. Three reporters narrowed their eyes at her. Jaime stepped around them, towards her and encouraged her to continue. She cleared her throat and said, “If we transferred power directly to consumers, as it is made, up to eighty percent of the energy would be lost along its journey. Curiously, when you step up the voltage through coils hidden inside the transformer, it makes the journey far more efficient. We have transformers at substations that step down the voltage into a more usable number for consumers, and hardly any energy is lost.”

Jaime stood by her side, the same distance they shared at the ball. The simple reminder made her hands squeeze each other as she neatly intertwined them at the front of her dress. She no longer saw the photographer, but she wanted to look far more proper and happy than she felt.

“How much voltage?”

“Thirty thousand or so,” she said.

“That sounds quite heavy.”

“It doesn’t weigh anything.”

Jaime smirked and said, “As far as we know. You’re all more than welcome to bring a scale. If you’re wondering why electricity can get from here to Lannisport, that’s the power of alternating current and science. Shall we? I’m itching to start this.”

In his most natural state, Jaime led the group outside to face the river. Reporters moved aside for her, and she found herself by Jaime’s side. Water rolled over the small dam while he explained how the dam and gates worked to the reporters, his voice louder than the waterfall’s thrums. He explained that the dam was raised to its maximum height in order to allow safer working conditions. When a reporter asked why there was a lever in the middle of the river, near the intake tunnel, Jaime said it helped during construction and it would be removed soon. Jaime then suggested everyone visit the cavern for a few minutes. Brienne quieted her breath.

In the elevator, Brienne’s shoulders brushed against Jaime’s. On the ride down, reporters asked questions, and Jaime turned his head to answer them; his breath washed over her neck. Her chest grew heavy at the reminder of him. The chilled air of the cavern relieved her, and she stepped out first. They remained close to each other’s side as Jaime gave a quick explanation of the wheels and generators. The pressure of the moment and everyone’s eyes limited her concentration, but when Jaime signaled an operator to open the intake gates in the riverbed, she squeezed her hands together. The moment of testing this power house was finally here.

Loud water poured into penstocks with a strong gush, sounding like a curved wave barreling towards them. The water fell within its large intake pipe, lost in its own transformation from potential energy to kinetic. Water cascaded into smaller pipes and jets aimed at water wheels. Alive, the cavern hummed while the water wheels began their first turns. Inside their metal casings, they purred. Jaime glimpsed at Brienne with bright eyes, and she released her first smile.

The photographer adjusted his box camera. Jaime jogged down to the first and second generator, both louder than a road full of gasoline cars. Brienne followed, at her own slow and dreamy pace. The voices of the men were drowned out by the vibrations of the two water wheels and two generators working. 

“Look, look, look,” Jaime said, near the switchboard. His childlike, triumphant face peered out from behind the fourth generator, and his hands urged Brienne to come quickly.

With a handful of skirt fabric in each hand, she trotted forward. She turned the corner to find the electrician and Jaime whooping at the current and voltage dials. Leaning forward, the line persisted exactly where she predicted, and she burst into a fit of smiles.

Their promising work, as shown by the fevered fidgeting of Jaime’s fingers, was not done. They needed to close the circuits.

Jaime directed everyone to return upstairs. Compared to weeks of silence, the cavern lived and roared. Brienne shared fast, smiling glances with Jaime, their lack of distance not nearly as distracting as before. His hands refused to keep still, and he rubbed his stubbled chin and ran his hand through his hair. His tongue wet his lips, and his lips disappeared into a tense line. Both of them, she supposed, felt like children on their namedays. 

A crowd of citizens and workers awaited them outside the transformer house. Addam pointed towards a banner the length of the brick transformer building, and it beamed Hura Falls’ name. Darlessa and Missandei waved and cheered with the lot of them. Now over the trees, the sun gave the transformer house a brilliant russet shine. Jaime pressed forward, along with the gathering of reporters to watch the last test. A singular, temporary knife-switch centered underneath the banner. Once closed, the switch would complete the circuit and allow the energy to flow through the transformers and across the countryside. _This_ was her work.

Brienne preferred to stand off to the side, along with the thirty workers, but Jaime insisted they all come into view. The dozen of them crowded around the knife-switch—Jaime in the center. She, the only female, tried to hide herself behind the tallest workers, but Jaime disallowed it.

“Come here. You’re doing this with me,” he said, low enough for no reporters to hear.

“But this is all your work,” she whispered.

He glared and reached for her, ready to snatch her against her will. For fear of arguing in front of the public, papers and magazines, Brienne scuffed forward, hoping not to step on anyone’s shoe.

“Hold my hand. We’ll do it together,” he said.

Again, Brienne shook her head in trembles, but he insisted with his look of passion. She submitted and stood on the left of the knife-switch, and Jaime stood on its right. The handle faced up at the level of her belly, and his hand waited for hers on the rubbered end. When she stretched her cautious hand onto his warm fingers, the crowd silenced. She thought back to their first ball—their first dance, their only dance—where he likely first stole her heart. The idea of failure, especially in the eyes of others, stunned her.

“For two years,” Jaime said, shouting to the crowd, “I have envisioned a world where the power of Hura Falls can help Lannisport. We’ve suffered no deaths and no injuries while these men, and women, tirelessly worked to bring this dream to life. This is not my success, this is Lannisport’s success.”

People cheered him on, but he looked at Brienne; his eyes were wild with excitement. She gave a breathless grin, so mild he may not have seen it. In a strange, exciting way, the warmth of his hand and the fervor in his face distracted her from the crowd.

Shouts counted down from three. Brienne squeezed his hand underneath his; their gaze bound together—worried, anticipated. They inhaled, and at the count of one, they pressed the handle down gently together. The circuit closed, and a blue spark ran across the machinery in a flash. Bulbs inside the transformer house burst forth brilliantly. The year and name glowed inside the building along with the sudden buzz of transformers, now working.

Amidst claps and cheers, Jaime shared an expression of triumph with Brienne, perhaps brighter than anything else. The surreal sensation of completing a project, only a fraction her own doing, left her in a daze. She could only imagine what levels of relief or joy he experienced. Her own mouth released a small hum, and by the sudden intensity of his focus, he heard her. Brienne offered her smile, but he offered his hand, stretching forward to seize the left side of her face. He pulled her closer, crashing towards him—his hand firm. Before she could gasp, before she could do anything, he kissed her cheek. The softness of his lips contrasted with the sharpness of his stubble. He pulled away quickly, but the momentum of his tug left her in a speechless. He continued to smile while Brienne stared—dumbfounded at the cloudless pleasure in his face. Her hand, as surprised as the rest of her, slipped off of his and the knife-switch handle.

In this moment, he was not the brooding man she knew, nor the mocking character she encountered at Casterly Rock. This man was victorious. He had _kissed her cheek_. 

Suffering a great shock, Brienne did not believe his kiss at first. She only thought of that moment, even when he walked both of them over to a picnic table. Perpetual mist fell over them as several reporters propped up their chairs in order to ask more questions. Jaime sat next to Brienne, their thighs almost touching, and it was the only sense of space she focused on. She considered her entire calculation of him wrong and assumptive. Perhaps he did like her, despite her negative qualities and behavior. How could he think of her fondly when he likely thought she wore the dress to harm him?

“How do you feel?” a reporter asked Jaime.

Brienne looked at Jaime as if he might divulge exactly how he felt about _her._

“How do I feel? I’ve made my gamble, and its taken its toll. No man sacrifices absolutely all other prospects, mortgages or his brains to one thing. Gives up all thoughts of any other future. Impairs his health, strength and vitality. And suffers the nightmares and man killing nerve strain such as I have done, for any salary, compensation and money whatsoever.”

Brienne no longer denied her smile at his arrogant words. He was a consistent man full of contradictions.

The reporter finished his notes and asked, “Why not name the power house Lannister Power House?”

“Hura Falls speaks for itself. I’m not the one providing power, the water is.”

“Mrs. Lannister,” another asked, “are you glad this work is done?”

A simple question without its simple answer, Brienne straightened her posture and opened her mouth, but no words came out. Who would dare listen to her? Jaime’s right hand reached over to clasp over her own. She welcomed it as much as she found it jolting and distracting.

“I do hope we have many more projects like this in the future,” she said.

When her answer ended, the seconds dragged on, and Jaime’s hand lingered on hers. He continued to hold her hand in a soft and simple grasp, no more movement than the brush of his thumb against her skin.

“Last question. Other than lights, factories and mills, what can electricity do for Lannisport?”

Jaime smirked. “Cars. More of them, at least. Electric cars, even. In fact, I have to elaborate on our future projects. We have one in the works already.” Brienne squeezed her hand and he squeezed back. “We plan to transmit the longest transmission of electrical energy in the world—all Mrs. Lannister’s idea.”

She deepened the wrinkle between her tight brows. Did he mean to mock her or did he accept her idea she proposed weeks ago?

“Mrs. Lannister’s idea?” The reporter said, “Wow. That’s impressive.”

Brienne shared a small look with Jaime, who smiled at her. His words were no joke. She felt faint as he explained the experiment to the reporters—her hand clamming underneath his. His support and faith in her idea was… beautiful. 

A reporter stood, and Jaime abandoned Brienne’s hand to shake the reporter’s. The dizziness continued after reporters started their descent down the hill along with dozens of others. Addam, Darlessa, Missandei and the workers stayed to celebrate, but Brienne’s nails itched at the expectation of attempting her transmission idea. She wanted nothing more than to pin up her sleeves, crack open an unused transformer and re-circuit wires. Her heart refused to slow without distraction, so she declined champagne and poured herself into work.

Missandei translated the electrician’s Valyrian. He was an older gentleman with white, curly tips of his hair and beech colored skin, named Baesenarr. Both he and Brienne declined champagne again when Addam, Jaime and Darlessa entered the transformer house after lunch. Brienne tried her best to ignore Jaime’s voice, but he never stopped talking. To her, it did not matter if he spoke to others, her ears gave her no choice but to obsess over every word and inflection in his tone. Even in chilled air, his joyful tone warmed her.

Tongue between her teeth, Brienne tried her best to concentrate, but Darlessa’s question gave her heart a scare. “Let’s walk to the base of the falls, shall we? It’s quite romantic, and fresh air will do us all some good.”

Missandei stood. Brienne held the wire she plucked and looked over her shoulder. Jaime, standing across the room but gazing directly at Brienne, waited for her answer. Surely, he could not feign affection in front of his closest friends, and she could not fool Missandei. Darlessa meant well, of course, and perhaps she claimed some guilt for the reaction to Brienne’s ball gown. Despite Brienne’s love for the future, she expected no romance, however badly she desired it.

“Thank you,” Brienne said, “but I would rather continue working.”

“Very well,” Addam said, “we’ll be taking our leave to be back in time for tea.”

Jaime forced a grin, scratched his ear and said his goodbyes. Brienne hugged Missandei, careful not to rub any dirt or grease onto her outfit, and Baesenarr bowed his way out, leaving Jaime and Brienne alone with the transmission’s hums. Hidden inside, endless coils expanded and contracted with energy, giving rise to a low vibration throughout the transformer house.

She turned away from him, horrified by the idea of their fleeting, happy marriage’s disappearance. Her own thoughts, however, gave him credit where he deserved. He never physically harmed her and never poured her tea. He supported her as any man should, yet, why did she feel such despair? Her lungs found it hard to breathe while alone with him because they were never truly alone. Either Cersei loomed over them or Mrs. Lannister’s memory clouded his attention. 

“He brings up a good point, you know,” Jaime said. “It’s almost time for afternoon tea.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

She redirected a wire and plucked another, but the sound of his feet approaching stalled her. He stopped behind her and said nothing.

“Are you checking my work?” she asked, stuck in her half-squat beside the unplugged and gutted transformer.

“That’s one way to call it.”

“Call what?”

He crouched down beside her and leaned closer to point far inside the transformer. “What’s that?” He grunted when he pulled his hand back.

Brienne stared ahead, refusing to look at him. “The oil line.” She sneered. “Do you trust my work?”

“I trust you,” he said, and the weight of his words thickened the space between them. “Thank you for today and all your hard work. Are you excited to try your experiment?” He immediately laughed to himself. “Of course you are. What do I have to do to get you to take a break?”

Face turned, closer than she originally thought, she glared at him. “I’m perfectly happy as I am, far more without distraction.”

“Distraction?” He chuckled again with a smile so charming she looked away. He taunted her. “Do you find me distracting?”

She still held the same wire she had plucked when he stepped behind her. Her mouth refused to tell him how every part of him distracted her.

His hand reached forward, and her silly mind thought it sought out her, but it found his watch in his pocket. “We should head down now.”

“I want to stay. You go ahead.”

He scoffed. “And roll down the hills how?”

“I can borrow a bicycle, and we can return it in the morning.” She knew her dress skirts were a problem, but there were several pairs of spare trousers and linen shirts in the cavern lockers. At the very worst, she could ask the workers for help; they no longer scared her.

His glossed over eyes glared at the floor like her stubbornness pricked him into pain.

She, too, looked away and whispered, “Why don’t you stay with me?” Her own bravery shocked her cheeks aflame.

Beside her, Jaime softened his expression, but his eyebrows remained low and in a state of discomfort. She glanced up to meet his gaze and found it hard to look away. The transformer loomed around them, protecting them from any unsuspecting onlookers or ghosts peering into their rare moment of intimacy. Her question coiled around his heart, and with every second, she begged for him to agree. His own breath, like whispers, shook between them. Those eyes of his, darting between her own, dared to say yes.

His voice soft, he said, “Cersei will wonder where I am.” Hands on his knees, he stood.

Brienne held her head down and frowned, hoping the angle hid her trembling lips.

He sighed, deep enough for her to feel the edge of his breath—a gentle breeze, gone too soon. When he stepped away, Brienne dropped her wire, her eyes following him as he walked across the room.

She asked, “Did Cersei and Mrs. Lannister get along?”

Stopped, Jaime turned his head to the left and spoke over his shoulder. “Yes.”

Rain, from a hurried cloud, pattered drops against the roof. Its hollow sound joined the hum of the transformers, but it did nothing to silence the disappointment in her heart, running around in her chest. Of course Cersei adored Mrs. Lannister; she was perfect, especially compared to Brienne. 

A small, dying spark compelled her to ask one more question, and his answer might make all the difference. “And you love—or loved Mrs. Lannister?”

“I did, before...”


	16. Chapter 16

Cersei walked into the morning room, her keys clanging together as if she was a prison guard. At her desk, Brienne straightened her posture and paused. The teal blur carried her tray of kettle, cups and teas to the table with a forced smile. Surely, this sudden ceremony of teas made up for the lack of tea the previous day, the day Jaime kissed Brienne’s cheek. He had driven down the hill without her while she stayed late and completed her work the night before. She had stripped and changed into men’s clothing, fastened a couple flashlights to the front of the bicycle and floated down the mountain. The humid breeze clouded her face, and she arrived at dusk. Brienne, with the promise of fulfilling work the following days, slept well, and it took great patience to fall asleep again when Jaime silently slipped into bed next to her.

Cersei poured steaming water over a cup of homemade tea, poisoned tea, and Brienne watched her every move.

A mild smile dropped off Cersei’s lips when she said, “Valon says he has yet to take your document to the post.” 

Brienne clenched her pencil. “I had a question about it, and I have not received the response.”

“A question? For the bank?”

“Yes, a question.” She did not _lie._

Cersei stared at the tea before she delivered it. Brienne managed a weak smile through the revolting odor.

“Drink your tea,” Cersei said. “I’ll ask Valon if he’s received anything from the post for you.”

“Thank you. In fact, I think I’ll finish my work in the library,” Brienne said, standing. She gathered her things and intended to leave her tea. 

Cersei lowered her chin and looked at the sheet of empty signatures Brienne accepted from Lannisport. Brienne intended to have the servants, those who were interested, sign it before she returned it to the man on the streets. Cersei’s eyes traveled to Brienne in a peculiar way. “The fire is not lit in the library,” Cersei said.

“I do not mind.”

“Very well. Let’s not forget your tea.” Cersei said, a little smile of scorn upon her lips.

Brienne led the way out, carrying only her sketchbook and papers against her simple cream frock. Behind her, Cersei followed with the cup of tea as they crossed through the drawing room. Both Maevor and Valon scrambled to finish their daily cleaning of the library while Brienne sat at Jaime’s desk. Steam hovered over the teacup like fog.

Flush crept along Brienne’s chest and neck at the thought of inconveniencing her servants; their faces were worlds of panic. Maevor pointed to a locked cabinet in haste, mumbling Valyrian and Valor asked a question from the base of the stairs. Cersei fumbled with her collection of keys, amidst tense lips and furrowed brows. She soon slammed them on the small table beside the fire. She grumbled as Maevor’s eyes glanced at Brienne. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached for the keys. Cersei glared at Valon and stormed down the short stairs, leaving the room with a dark and tense air.

Maevor opened the cabinet and revealed fragments of bark and logs—nothing he wanted, by the sound of his sigh. He left, presumably to find firewood for a fire Brienne did not want. 

The guilt of throwing their morning into disarray did not leave her when she was alone. It festered along with thoughts of the slags and the frustrations of misunderstandings. She never meant to uproot everyone’s morning, she only wanted to avoid the tea.

Her eyes wandered until she saw Cersei’s ring of keys on the table. Brienne sank into the chair, toes squeezed together in her slippers. If she took the keys, where would she go? 

Face hot, she looked around the room again, confronted by its oppressive nature. This entire house harbored secrets, if she listened well enough. Those keys were not hers… but the house _was._

Brienne lurched forward, loud enough to ring in her ears after the minute of deathly quiet. She snatched the heavy set of iron keys, mostly black with freckles of rust, and she shoved them down the top of her frock. The keys fit against her small chest as if it was a pocket, keys resting against the top of her corset. Without a single step, she felt more powerful than Hura Falls.

Racing down the steps, she avoided voices in the foyer and slipped into the morning room. Cersei left her tray of teas. Brienne scanned over the tea leaves in the strainer, wet and slippery. She grabbed a few of them, and for fear of staining her frock or undergarments, she rushed to the desk and stuffed the slimy bits of dried leaves in the far back of the desk drawer. The clock struck at the hour and startled her stiff. One minute into her blaze of thievery and she had not yet used a single key. She looked up. Secrets, like dead bodies in water, floated their way to the top in this house.

Her heart, pounding wildly, and her shoulders, hunched forward, tried their best to hide themselves as she walked through the drawing room, the foyer and up the stairs. She forced a quick smile at four maids, but she did not care to stay and listen if they whispered about her odd behavior. None of her own fears mattered, because the maids shuffled into the closest room, leaving Brienne alone. She advanced through the gallery, quicker with every step, and climbed the stairs again to reach the third floor. By the time voices echoed at the bottom of the foyer, she turned a corner in order to hide from them.

The third floor, never explored until now by Brienne, constricted into winding pathways of half crumbled walls. Moths surged from the shadows as she walked forward, wings larger than her fingers. As they flew by her face, she gasped and cowered against the wall. Bits of plaster fell to her heels. Tiny black legs, hundreds of them, clung to the walls between large black moth wings. A dozen of them fluttered towards the gaping hole in the roof, now only five meters away. It looked as if no one had tried to repair this part of the home in centuries.

Brienne surveyed the ground, careful to plan her pathway to one of the only doors she saw. Her steps, slow and deliberate, crept forward through the center of the decayed hallway. Moths breathed with their wings—a tempered pace, but the unorchestrated sight of hundreds of wings gave more sense of chaos than music.

Reaching the door, she found it locked. Her shaking hands pulled out the keys, and in the muffled daylight, she guessed which of the dozens of keys worked on the rather large keyhole. She succeeded on her third attempt.

The door opened in, and she entered a small attic the size of her bedroom. Framed pictures filled the slanted walls. Bare spots of the faded red walls fell apart and revealed the house’s skeleton-like bones. No one was in the attic, but from the looks of a nightgown and blankets draped over a chair, someone used it often. Rugs piled on one another, and the oldest collection of furniture filled the room, likely hundreds of years old. A singular circled window poured daylight onto a humble smaller bed at the end of the room. Four candelabras, waiting to be lit, hung in every corner. Brienne stepped in, almost walking into a small glass dome of dead butterflies. The glass trembled as she walked past it.

Oncoming taps approached like a teacher tapping a chalkboard. Brienne clenched the set of keys in her hands, ready to either use them as a weapon or protection. Nora, full of panting smiles, wagged her way into the room. 

Brienne let out a shivered breath and closed her eyes. Nora failed to care about Brienne’s behavior and curled beside a wooden vanity, ready for a nap. A pile of letters and papers littered the vanity, and Brienne stepped closer. The letters, more than a dozen, were all addressed to Brienne. She snatched one and turned it over. Already torn open, she yanked out the letter and found Renly’s name signed at the bottom. The mountains of words alarmed her, including the date, dated over a month ago. Six other letters were the same: addressed to her but never given. Brienne was the victim with her hands tied behind her back.

She could not believe Valon or any servant did this to her. In fact, none of them would live in a room with one bed and a woman’s nightgown draped over a chair. This had to be Cersei’s room. Brienne frowned as a prick of tears swelled behind her eyes. She caught her own face in the looking glass, thinner than when she left King’s Landing. Her freckles faded. Her hair, already a nested mess of straw, turned into a brittle collection of discord. Her lips quaked and twisted. The look of her eyes trapped her most—eyes of a child frozen in fear. 

On the downward slope of the looking glass, there was a small photograph of a newborn attached to the edge of the frame. A woman’s hands, with the same emerald ring Jaime gave Brienne, curled around the baby’s swaddled belly. Brienne plucked the photograph and turned it over, reading the curved name of “Joffrey Lannister.” Jaime had a son.

Wincing, she returned the photograph. The sight of her own stolen letters urged her to push forward. To the right, she saw several Valyrian dictionaries. Cersei meant to harm Brienne in every way possible. 

Brienne left the letters and the dictionaries, despite her yearning to read them, because she could not think of a decent reason for her exploration; she had spent far too long doing it. She asked Nora to follow her out, and the yawning dog took her time walking around a glass jar filled with murky green liquid.

With heavy keys in hand, she locked the door, half expecting Cersei or Mrs. Lannister’s ghost to confront her as she turned around. No one stood in her way. She tip-toed down the stairs, back straight when her feet landed on the second floor. Jaime’s voice floated from below, followed by Cersei’s yells. Brienne walked faster.

No longer in the foyer, Jaime disappeared, and Brienne hesitated when her feet landed on the first floor. Her heart lodged permanently in her throat, and she still held the key ring in tight fingers.

Cersei, in the drawing room, shouted, “Maevor took my keys.”

Brienne hurried forward, ready to cry at the thought of unintentionally harming Maevor. Her eyes searched for Cersei, whose teeth were bared and viscous. If it were not for the fear of Maevor’s well-being, Brienne would find it hard to speak at all. Brienne said, “He did not.”

Cersei whirled around to glare at her. The fire behind her roared, far too large for a late morning fire.

“I borrowed them,” Brienne said, standing a few meters away while Cersei stormed closer. “You were out of the room, so—”

Cersei snatched the keys out of her hand. 

Brienne felt no shame in lying, no shame at all compared to the evil of Cersei, but it did not mean she lied well. “I—there was a locked cabinet in my bedroom, and I did not want to bother you.”

“There are no locked cabinets in your room,” Cersei said, voice many levels calmer than moments before. Her chin lifted along with pinched eyes.

Squinting, Brienne remained still. 

“There. You found them,” Jaime said as he entered the drawing room. “I told you they’d turn up.”

Brienne, stiff but observant, watched Jaime walk up to his sister, who averted her eyes away to the keys in her hand. In a handful of words, within mere seconds, Cersei would reveal Brienne’s guilt, and Jaime would throw her in the sea as punishment. He would never trust her again; trust so valuable she mourned the loss of it before Cersei spoke a word.

Cersei looked at Brienne. “You have yet to drink your tea. It’s in the library, as you requested it.” She withdrew from the drawing room, taking her keys and glares with her. 

Brienne remained quiet and speechless.

Jaime narrowed his eyes. “Why are you in the library?”

“My books are there.”

“Of course.” Jaime nodded and forced a faint smile. Together, they walked towards the library as if nothing happened, nothing at all. Jaime said, “I took the liberty to have the electrician work on Lannisport’s transformers today, so you only need work on the substation here.”

“Very well.” 

They climbed the stairs. Jaime gathered Brienne’s papers and sketches on his desk. “Not nearly enough room for us both to sit,” he said.

“No, but I didn’t know when you would come back.”

“You make it sound like I traveled the world this morning,” he said with a laugh, but the look on her face gave him an edge of seriousness. “It’s no bother,” he said. “Use it.”

“No, I should begin work.” She stepped closer to gather her things, refusing to look at him.

“I’m off to Hura regardless of your decision within the hour. You found your way home last night, will you be all right here today by yourself? You can come with me.”

She did not know how to respond. If she revealed Cersei kept her letters, would that convince him of her corruption? Brienne glanced to see his face tilted, looking at her in a puzzled way. She cleared her throat and said, “If you’d like to run the test tomorrow, I need to work here today.”

“You can work wherever you want, run the test whenever you want. I’m following your lead.”

“I will work here today, and we will run the test tomorrow.” She held her papers close to her chest.

He glared. “Was that so incredibly hard to say at the beginning?”

“Is every jab of yours so incredibly hard to keep to yourself?”

“I’m offering support,” he said, more tense than before.

He provided none. Brienne glared at the desk, drowned in the thoughts of Cersei’s poison and sabotage. Jaime would never believe her, even if she had mountains of proof. He likely thought Brienne was the criminal with her accusing words and vicious prank—wearing his previous wife’s dress. From his perspective, she meant to stab the closest people to his heart.

“You sound upset,” she said.

“I am.”

Her throat croaked when she asked, “Is it about that dress?”

“Forget the dress.” He gripped the edge of the desk, glaring at her with the same eyes she saw the day of the ball. His voice was rough, not his voice at all. “It was a terrible mistake,” he said.

One cruel act after another, and she could not bring herself to verbally cast blame on Cersei for fear of rejection. Jaime changed that day, the day of the ball, and Brienne claimed responsibility for every glare, every tense breath, every centimeter of growing distance between them. She shook her head, eyes unwillingly filling. She said, “A mean, horrible mistake, and I did not mean to harm you at all.”

Jaime looked away from her, his eyes settling on her pile of new engineering books. He put both hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. His moody stare intensified until he spoke slowly and thoughtfully, “I wonder if I did a very selfish thing in marrying you.”

A cold sickness overcame her. “What do you mean?” she whispered.

Eyes on her, he said, “I rushed you into it. I never gave you a chance to think it over.”

“I did not want to think it over. I agreed. There was no time, nowhere welcome, no place for me to be.”

“And you would do it again? You don’t regret this?”

She thought to herself, and he saw the look of doubt in her eyes—she _did_ regret so much: the tea, the dress… “I don’t regret all of it.”

He winced.

Brienne reached for his hand and held it—limp, warm and lifeless in her desperate hand. “You regret it? All of it?” If powering Lannisport and making a name for herself was an attempt for honor, grasping his hand was her attempt for affection.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

Their eyes, both in pain, gazed into each other to search for their own answer.

“With you,” Brienne whispered, “yes.” She could not lie, not to him. “Are you?”

He swallowed and looked away, his hand squeezing her once. “For what I’ve done to you, and not done… If you say we’re happy, let’s leave it at that. It’s something I know nothing about.”

Valon walked into the drawing room, nowhere near the library, and Jaime pulled away his hand. Brienne stepped back and leaned against the windowsill, unable to glance at either of them. Her nails, scrubby and somewhat jagged, needed filing and she wanted nothing more than to tear into them. When Jaime walked down the stairs and patted Valon on the shoulder, she could only think of Jaime.

Arms full of logs, Valon hummed a nervous tune while he walked up the stairs. He set half of the logs in the fireplace, neat and organized, and placed the rest in the cabinet left ajar. When he reached for a box of matches, Brienne scrambled towards him to save the trouble and waste.

She startled him, based on the wideness of his dark eyes. He stopped mid-grab and she shook her head, forcing a weak smile. “No,” she said, “no, thank you. I don’t need a fire.”

He continued to stare until he slowly set down the box of matches. Brienne nodded and smiled, but he looked as if she might bite him. Her appearances scared many, it seemed.

Valon remained in the library as she walked across the drawing room and into the morning room. The tray, with its tea leaves, had already been taken away, and she expected Cersei to confront her again about the refused tea.

Brienne opened the desk drawer and retrieved the hidden fragments of tea. With patience, she assembled an almost complete tea leaf and quickly sketched the image on a blank note, ignoring the Mrs. Lannister printed at the top. The scent repulsed her, even after she returned the tea leaves into their hidden spot. She folded the sketch, hid it in her palm and returned to the library.

She selected a botany textbook, filled with sketches, history, meanings and general information about Westerosi plants. The unique length of the leaf helped little in its identification, except for the fact that no natural tea plants had skinny leaves like this—yet, she had seen this leaf before.

Nora beside her, Brienne returned to the morning room with the textbook and her sketch. She peered over the mantelpiece, over the wilting dahlias, carnations, amaranth, monkshood and—oleanders. Long thin leaves spread like swords on the stem, barely contained in its porcelain vase. Upon holding the sketch to the leaf, oleander leaves appeared almost identical to the sketch.

Brienne raced to the desk and searched for oleanders in the textbook. An entire page described the history: named after a man caught in tragic love, and for centuries, people used it to deter pests or treat ailments. It symbolized caution. Brienne read on, and her eyes stopped when the textbook described oleander’s extreme toxicity; it poisoned the heart. 

With every attempt, Brienne found more damning evidence against the woman, and if she found enough, she planned to bypass Jaime altogether and hand it to the authorities. The price of her life, and the ability to help others, outweighed Cersei’s motive… whatever it was. Even so, Jaime would discover the truth and he would hate her, potentially, for imprisoning his sister… and Brienne would lose her employment. What was worth most, employment, love or life?


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Any engineers reading this can dream with me that the situation in this chapter could happen. I mean, I had to throw in engineering drama _somewhere_ , and I ain’t no engineer, so I hope you like it?

After viewing the paper, Cersei insisted on visiting Hura Falls with them the next day. Brienne considered driving her electric car, since it was now charged and ready to drive, but the worry of Jaime’s and Cersei’s disapproval stopped her. Brienne had locked her unsigned financial document in her car.

Cersei climbed first into the car and claimed her spot in the middle; her eyes fixed on either the floor of the car or Brienne’s folded hands. Cersei glanced at the house as Jaime drove across the sweep, and no servants waved goodbye.

Brienne remained stiff and awkward against Cersei, gripping the leather edge of the seat for stability. The worn seams and frayed edges mapped her hand. She squeezed harder when she thought of the experiment today, the longest transmission of electricity in the world. The celebration of Hura Falls’ transmission felt wonderful to help others, though she was still unsatisfied.

The car turned slowly, and she remained upright. Jaime, for whatever reason, was quiet and careful with his driving. Cersei’s eyes, unblinking in the subtle breeze, gazed at the trees and shrubs they passed. Her reasons for tagging along were not transparent enough for Brienne to understand.

At the top, Cersei smiled at the waterfall, and Jaime and Brienne exited the car. Mist fell onto all of them, including Cersei’s typical gown. In daylight, her teal fabric glowed brighter, and her hair glimmered. Brienne knew her own hair resembled dirty straw, and the rich gold of her favorite gown did little to improve it. Still, her gloved hands picked up her dress fabric when she stepped over a log and walked towards the elevator. Jaime, with his brooding frown, stood beside Cersei as they looked at the waterfall.

Brienne rode the elevator by herself and found the operator in smiling spirits inside the cavern. To prevent herself from biting her nails, she ran her fingertips along the flower embroidery on her golden dress. Its bright color hid the flowers well enough, along with her exaggerated puffed sleeves. Mrs. Dalla, who made this dress, loved it the most. Brienne remembered seeing the golden fabric for the first time years ago, worried it would look horrible on her. She was wrong. The puffs lost a bit of their air and shape, but the subtle flower details and tumbling black bow on the back of the dress looked fresh and alive.

The hum of the cavern welcomed her, and the two sets of water wheels and generators worked seamlessly. Papers posted from Lannisport hung on the walls; headlines congratulated Hura Falls on cheaper, efficient power. Over an article describing Lannisport’s reactions and the Lannisters’ interview, Brienne glanced at the photograph of Jaime holding her hand in front of the transformer house. Her cheeks grew hot. She walked past the third generator, dormant for now, and slowed down at the fourth: her primary concern for the day. If everything ran correctly, they would create more electricity in the cavern, send it back and forth between substations and receive it back in the cavern, totalling a distance of over 150 miles. No one ever transferred so much energy over more than a couple dozen miles, and a growing number of engineers and business partners doubted alternating current’s potential. While they found alternating current dangerous and useless, Brienne wanted to prove alternating current thrived over distances.

Jaime and Cersei came down, and by the wide look in Cersei’s eyes, she had not seen the cavern in some time, if at all. The duo walked to the switchboard, where Brienne sat alongside the operator. Cersei stared at the myriad of ammeters and voltmeters on the switchboard while the operator, Jaime and Brienne translated their plan. They strategized to turn on the third water wheel and the third generator, and transformers would redirect the electricity back and forth to reach their desired distance of 150 miles. Finally, they would redirect the current into the fourth generator in the cavern and turn the fourth generator into a motor.

“You said there’s an office? Is it warmer in there?” Cersei asked, narrowing at Jaime.

“Yes, past the kitchen and by the lathe.”

Cersei gave a mild smile, focused on a flashing light on the switchboard as she waited for Jaime to give in and take her there. They both understood each other without another word, and Jaime stepped around the alcove of the switchboard and showed Cersei the way to the office.

Brienne offered a small smile to the operator, Lijie, who spoke more YiTish than Valyrian. Every bit of him smiled when he grinned, including his eyes and cheeks. His fingers, cracked from work, dried in small bits of his own blood. Even so, this man looked extremely happy. “Transformer?” he asked.

“Yes,” Brienne said, “You can watch the transformers?”

He smiled again and continued when Jaime returned without Cersei.

“Kesi sagon kesīr,” Jaime said, and Lijie nodded excitedly.

“Transformer?”

“Kessa,” Jaime said with a smile.

Lijie beamed, whistling when he walked towards the fourth generator. The man gave the generator a solid pat of encouragement. Jaime chuckled to himself and took a seat on the stool, making Brienne far taller than him.

“I daresay, he’s excited,” Jaime said. 

Brienne said, “Why shouldn’t he be?”

“He should, as should you and I. A few men are tinkering upstairs with the transformers. Unfortunately, you and I are going to witness this alone.”

Brienne turned towards the panels, hiding her cheeks.

“Are we ready? Can I open the third water wheel?” he asked.

“Hold on,” Brienne said, “I need to turn on the four relays for the transformers.” She clicked up a series of four switches on the bottom left of the switchboard. Next, her eyes scanned over the meters on the wall—half of the meters would soon resurrect. Her throat tightened, followed by persistent heaves of her heart, as if she stepped on a crumbling bridge, never knowing when the floor might fall apart under her feet.

“Are you nervous?” Jaime asked, his voice with an air of tease. He leaned closer.

Brienne closed her eyes, tempted to lie. “I am.”

“If you’re worried about ruining equipment, remember there isn’t a single thing we can’t buy a replacement for.” He stood and offered her a simple smirk.

His words may have calmed her, but his impassioned eyes washed her relief away. In their small space in front of the switchboard, the bulk of the equipment gave them little space. In a way, he cornered her against the switchboard, although he surely never meant to. He had no interest in her, no yearning towards her whatsoever. Either the hesitation of trying this experiment or the close proximity of Jaime made her entire body tense with energy.

Her hands slipped off her gloves. She forced her lips to stop shivering and said, “We’re ready. Open the third wheel.”

Jaime’s smirk widened, and he pulled away, taking the tension with him. Brienne inhaled a deep breath and turned to look at the ammeters for the third water wheel. Along with the sound of water jetting and pounding against metal, the dial lifted up and stabilized to an expected range. She released a breathless smile. The wheel’s paired generator roared, and more meters danced on the switchboard. Within seconds, the generator to her right would hum along with them as a motor, signaling their success. Jaime ran over, his eyes eager for data.

But the generator made no sound; its ammeter dial barely moved.

Brienne’s heart melted through the floor. One of many things could have failed. She glanced over the step-up transformers, twenty-three through twenty-six, allotted to the project; and all four worked.

“What’s wrong?” Jaime asked. He stepped forward and peered beside her shoulder.

“I don’t know…” Maybe Casterly Rock’s transformers failed, or perhaps the transformers in Lannisport, the ones she trusted someone else to wire, ruined their experiment. _Something_ limited the power from reaching the fourth generator, but worst of all, power was not patient. Electricity swelled and poured into the point of least resistance. On transformers twenty-seven through thirty, only twenty-seven buzzed alive and the remaining three stayed silent. “There,” she said, pointing at the last four transformers.

One of them worked, unlike the other three, and at least it meant _some_ electricity finished its journey. The complete circuit failed in the last three transformers, crucial for the safety of the experiment. Her realization tasted bitter because she did not know why three of the four step-down transformers did not work. She, personally, had rewired each of them. A missed wire, or open circuit meant power pooled into the singular transformer, far too weak to handle the extra thousands of voltages zapping through its coils. Within a minute, or two if she was lucky, the heated coils would boil its cooling oil and cause an explosion of flames. Brienne tried the relays again and nothing happened. She flicked the relay of transformer twenty-seven in order to open the circuit, but it refused to move. Like Jaime said, parts were replaceable, but the lives inside the transformer house were irreplaceable, and she had no time to warn them.

She peeked her head behind the switchboard, into its hidden cavity of wires. Her eyes spotted one of the three failed transformers and saw its relay open. She lurched back. “Magnets. Three of them. Now.”

Jaime scowled, soon following her order after a second-long stare. While he followed her order, she unhooked part of the switchboard and revealed the guts and wires underneath. She placed her hand near transformer twenty-seven’s relay and it glowed red with heat and the other three were barren. Careful not to touch anything, she lowered her head to look closer. The common contacts did not touch the iron armature as they should. Once touched, the electromagnetic relay would allow current to flow through from the four transformers to the generator.

“You know you can’t touch those,” Jaime said, hovering behind her.

“We’re not going to touch them. You see these three relays, right here?” Brienne pointed, careful not to touch them. 

Jaime nodded, concerned and focused.

“We can attract the armature, this part here, to the contact with the magnet. That will allow current to go through.” Her hands, sweating and wet, clenched.

“Open the circuit.” He frowned.

“I’ve already tried.”

“I can stop the waterwheel.”

“You can’t stop it in time. The transformer will burst regardless if you stop it or not.”

His face became ashen.

“Place the magnet just above the relay, north side facing it, and if I remember right, we need to do this to the three relays at the same time to limit over-charging.”

“This is absurd.”

“You want half of the transformers to explode? In front of innocent workers with hundreds of liters of oil and fire?”

His jaw hardened.

“Get on the mat.” They stood on a rubber mat, but a poor conductor still allowed electricity through it—hopefully not enough to send voltage and amperage through them. It would kill them just the same as lightning. 

“Brienne—”

“Give me two magnets. You take one. North side forward.”

He set two magnets, the size of her pinkie, in her hands. Brienne tried her best to ignore the guilt of never testing these relays, never double checking their safety. She bore all responsibility, and if this worked, she would failed him again. If she failed… if they failed, they would pay with their lives. She had no choice. 

“Gentle…” Brienne said, pointing to the twenty-eighteenth relay for him. She approached the twenty-nineteenth and thirtieth relay. His right hand, steadier than hers, edged forward. She reminded him, “Don’t touch it—”

“Yes, I know,” he grumbled.

“Red side forward?”

“Do you have eyes, woman?”

She closed her eyes, only for a moment, and let out a shaking breath. “Slowly,” she breathed, and pressed forward. His hand mirrored hers, creeping closer until the three relays snapped within a second of each other, and sparks the size of her hand leapt between metal. Brienne jolted backwards. Magnets dropped out of her panicked hands. Her puffed sleeve collided into Jaime, who concentrated on the switchboard.

Brienne’s mouth, half open, trembled when the ammeters flickered alive and the fourth generator surged in power. She looked to her right, and the machine hummed exactly as the others, loud and fierce.

Hand on her forehead, she sighed—a whisper in comparison to the noise surrounding her. The generator read the voltage and current she predicted, meaning her experiment wasted little power along its obscenely long journey. Her experiment worked. Immediately, she smiled shamelessly and turned to Jaime. His stare, a mixture of awe and accomplishment, burst open into a genuine grin. He rubbed his hand through his hair, tight and clenching it to release his wound energy. Her heart beat faster than the generator beside her.

Jaime abruptly pivoted and stepped closer, too sudden for her to process his movement. He dropped his magnet, and it pattered the rubber mat he cornered her on. Brienne gasped when he reached for her, clasping both of her cheeks in his warm hands, large enough to cradle her. Speechless, breathless, without any and all feeling, she stared at him—lips parted and eyes stirred. His smile dropped along with her heart. He continued holding her face, and her timid hands reached out to hold him, gently placed above his waist. She froze when he moved forward and kissed her.

His lips, soft and warm on hers, opened enough to drag his stubble against her sensitive skin. It felt as if her entire body belonged to him. Her five senses relished the months of pent-up desire, now come to fruition. She acted on instinct and returned the kiss, all while her mind squealed to memorize every new sensation. His lips were far more delicate than she imagined, as tender as hers. An ache grew at the taste of him, no longer a fantasized mystery. 

He leaned closer, pressing his weight until she stumbled to a seat on the switchboard desk. She tilted her head back and whimpered when he pinned her further—his kiss desperate, like her lips were wanted. Brienne’s hands gripped his jacket, the black fabric tight between her fingers. Over the sound of the generator, he grunted. His hands rushed lower, hungry as they spread over the flowers stitched at her waist. She splayed her hands onto the side of his chest the moment his tongue lingered on her lips, tempting her to give into him, and she had every intention of doing so. He captivated her, and by the way his fingers grasped at the folds of her dress, she captivated him the same. Nothing was more intimate.

Mid-kiss, he stopped, breath paused but hers continued, lost and confused. She opened her eyes to find his eyes already open, and when she leaned up to kiss him again, his face pulled away and he turned his head.

“What is it?” she whispered.

Jaime dragged his thumb against her lip, the merest brush. “I thought I heard a noise.”

Through her hammering heart, porcelain clinked far to her right. Jaime stepped away from Brienne before Cersei rounded the corner, a cup of tea in her hand.

“I made you some tea,” Cersei said, her eyes quick to glance between them. Her neck tightened and her rough hands set the tea next to Brienne.

Brienne’s lips, buzzing with her first kiss, struggled to say, “You really shouldn’t put tea near the controls.”

“Of course,” Cersei said, but made no move to relocate the tea. “The faster you drink, the safer you’ll be.”

Jaime stood half a meter away, and his squinted eyes never left his sister.

“Drink your tea,” Cersei said, voice sweet but eyes bitter. She lifted the cup off its saucer and handed the tea to Brienne.

Unable to decline, Brienne accepted the tea, her fingers still alive with Jaime’s warmth underneath her skin. She refused to forget her interrupted moment. The heat between her legs remained, along with her hurried pulse and dizzied mind. She held the tea, transfixed in a daydream. Cersei narrowed her eyes.

Jaime frowned once and said, “Cersei, a word, please.”

Cersei broke her glare, lifted her chin with a faint smile and walked around the corner with Jaime. Brienne remained still, worried every change of variable might pull her from the sudden reality Jaime kissed her. Did it happen? Yes, his taste lingered on her lips. She stared at the tea, knowing if she satisfied Cersei by drinking the tiniest bit, the repulsive tea would stain him away. Her eyes searched for anywhere to dump or scatter the tea; but this place deserved no poison. Brienne blew gusts of air onto the tea’s surface, again and again, until she heard Cersei and Jaime approach. Before they turned the corner, Brienne pulled the neck of her dress and poured the tea down her chest. Almost burning, tea seeped into her corset and chemise. She inhaled a deep breath once the siblings walked into the alcove, both fixed in their subtle frowns.

At the sight of Brienne’s empty tea cup, however, Cersei offered a twisted smile.

Low and impatient, Jaime said, “Let’s stop this.”

Brienne winced and lurched off the small desk as if she misbehaved. If Jaime believed Cersei over her… it was Brienne’s worst fear. 

Jaime walked far away from both of them and turned off the third water wheel. Her heart continued to tremble, even after he revealed he meant to stop the experiment. Cersei waited between the wall of the generator and alcove of the switchboard like a guarding sentinel. The generator, once loud and powerful, slowly ground to a halt. Once the ammeters stilled, Brienne disconnected the relays for the circuit, scrutinizing every point of contact. Before she turned, she placed the cover on the section of switchboard and looked down at her dress, unable to see tea through the golden fabric. Instead, the tea soaked into her clothes underneath and stuck to her skin.

“Far too loud in here, don’t you think?” Cersei said, “I can’t hear myself breathe. Cold as well.”

“I feel warm,” Brienne said. Her cheeks burned. She glanced at Jaime, who looked away, and she directed her gaze to the ground. Perhaps he regretted all of it. Her throat struggled to swallow.

Up above, in the transformer house, Lijie and other workers bombarded Jaime with questions. Brienne checked the set of eight transformers to make sure they were safe. For good measure, the oiler squirted more cooling oil, making sure not to stain Brienne’s dress. Her eyes, compelled to glance at Jaime every ten seconds, often found him averting away from her and thick in conversation with others. He had kissed her… and he pulled away.

Brienne, Cersei and Jaime walked to the car after inspections. In front of the car, Jaime turned to look at Brienne, who stopped under his sudden gaze. He stared at a small wet stain below her bodice—evidence she never drank the tea. A strange puncture of tears welled behind her eyes. He furrowed his brows, followed by a sudden glare when he looked at Cersei, already seated in the middle of the car. Scoffing, he cranked the car on and climbed into the driver’s seat. Brienne slipped into her seat next to Cersei. The breeze and humidity of the waterfall brought out the bitter scent of the tea. Would Aenela or Jaime tell Cersei she poured tea down her dress?

Jaime drove slowly down the hill, and he kept his face forward when Cersei asked, “Did you achieve whatever transmission you wanted?”

“I did,” he said. His thumb rubbed the steering wheel.

Brienne looked at him, ignoring Cersei’s smile, and he adjusted his seat before they rounded a corner. His fingers dragged over his own lips, gently pinching and tugging just as their lips did moments ago. Like her, he reimagined their moment, and her empty heart soon overflowed. Her eyes bothered themselves far too much with him and she lurched to the left, almost out of the car when the road curved right. She gasped and reached for the car to save herself, relieved her gloves gripped well onto metal. Jaime slowed the car considerably and Brienne, amidst a fury of warm cheeks, waved her hand to keep driving.

“How do you feel?” Cersei asked Brienne with a smile.

Brienne squeezed her thighs closer together and gripped the edge of the seat. “I’ve never felt better,” she said.

Cersei gave a hum of acknowledgement and beyond her, Jaime glanced over. Brienne stared again, and when Jaime flashed a subtle smile, she looked away with her lips pressed tight against one another. Her love and affection for this man far exceeded any fear of Cersei, and if it was a mistake, her heart refused to listen.

When they arrived at the sweep of Casterly Rock, Maevor and Valon were not there. Brienne stepped out of the car, slipping her gloves off, and gazed around the grounds, now a mixture of gray and green underneath a blanket of clouds. 

“Where is everyone?” Brienne asked.

“You didn’t tell her?” Cersei asked Jaime.

Halfway out the car, Jaime stopped and frowned. “Tell her what?”

“My dear,” Cersei said, her footsteps crushing gravel underneath her boots. She walked closer to Brienne and feigned a sympathetic smile. “We had to let every servant go.”

“What?” Brienne asked.

Jaime hopped down and thrust his gloves off. “Cersei.”

Cersei glared at her brother and squeezed her own hand. “Tell me how I can afford to keep servants when the document to ensure their wages has yet to be signed. We’ve no money to pay them. They were unionizing against us with that ridiculous abolitionist paper Brienne brought home.” She looked at Brienne, eyes unyielding. “We’ll hire them back when you sign the document.”

Jaime stormed into the house, leaving the door open.

Perilously near trembling, Brienne could not break her scowl towards the woman. “Where are they?”

Cersei let out a single laugh and shrugged her shoulder. “Wherever servants go.”

Brienne’s nostrils tightened. She needed to ensure their safety, thus, she needed to find them. It became clear, as it should have at the beginning, Cersei would not stop until she won. She did not mind torturing others, whether it be the first Mrs. Lannister, servants or Brienne. The thought of Cersei harming Jaime made her legs weak as a dying lightbulb.

“I hope you can find a way to undress yourself, my dear,” Cersei said and turned away smiling.


	18. Chapter 18

Brienne entered Casterly Rock’s substation, its only attempt to reach the future—electricity. The substation had been working for days, but not a single bulb illuminated Casterly Rock’s walls. This mansion, dark as ever, was nowhere close to electricity. When given the choice to walk into darkness or light, she chose the latter. The dark past forbade the bright future, and they would never intersect. Outside the substation, her machine waited for her, untouched since its arrival. 

She checked the small compartment of the car and found her document, still unsigned and safely hidden. She needed help, but Jaime’s behavior still gave her pause. She pulled off the charging plug connected to her car and climbed in, turning the car on while it buzzed like a hummingbird. The car rolled around the sweep of the driveway. Casterly Rock’s front door remained open. If it were not for the fear of the servants’ well-being, she would have followed Jaime in—protected him, saved him from the dangers of his sister. Only Brienne could save the servants from the wrath of Cersei.

With no leads, she drove through the grounds and towards the Marbrands’ in order to get Missandei’s help. Perhaps Missandei would know where the servants went. At the very least, she deserved to know that her lover was dismissed at the cruel hand of Cersei. Now that Brienne knew the power of intimacy, she could not stand to have her friend torn further from her affections more than she already was.

Rain poured from the sky; Brienne scarcely felt it until the soldier pines and oaks no longer guarded her. The tires rolled over pliable autumn leaves once the car glided through the open gate. Water soaked into her dress and layers of clothing. With stern eyes and clenched fingers on the wheel, she arrived at the Marbrand estate unscathed—except her dress felt as heavy as the weight of responsibility for the servants.

Parked under a looming roof, a butler fussed to help her climb out of the car.

The butler asked, “Mrs. Lannister, you were calling?”

“Yes, I arrive in haste. Is there someone to welcome me?”

With wrinkles and wisps of gray hair, the butler managed a smile and entered the side entrance of the house. Brienne, fingers clenched, refused to stand still. She walked around her car and found a set of dry cables to charge her car. Darlessa’s new car shined.

The butler returned with a large umbrella and towered it over Brienne’s head. The anger at Cersei’s brutality kept Brienne warm enough. The scent of bitter tea no longer remained; the rain had cleansed her.

“Would you like another frock, Madam?” the butler asked as he walked with Brienne into the rain.

“No, thank you.” They rounded the corner and entered the front of the estate.

Roaring fires kept the Marbrand home toasty. The white walls appeared a shade lighter than the last time she visited. Drops of water trickled onto the pale maple floor. Her boots squished around her feet, but the sounds fled the moment Darlessa barreled down stairs with her hair half undone. 

“Dear gods, Mrs. Lannister,” Darlessa said, “you are absolutely drenched! We must find you a new frock at once. What a day we’ve had! Mr. Cole, please find suitable frocks as a replacement at once. Start tea and cakes early. Addam!”

Brienne wanted to stop them, but the butler bowed and left the foyer. Face heated, she looked down at her golden dress and found it somewhat glistening.

“What’s happened?” Darlessa asked, stepping closer.

Of course, Darlessa knew nothing of what happened, what Cersei did. Brienne never spoke a word of Jaime’s sister to Darlessa or Addam. “I apologize for the sudden visit,” Brienne said, “and I hoped to avoid the rain… Well,” Brienne’s voice croaked, unable to lie. “Is Miss Marbrand available? I have a very important question to ask.”

Darlessa scowled, of all things.

“Mrs. Lannister!” Addam called out, entering the foyer with a loud clap. At the sight of her, he separated his hands and said, “You look to be having an adventure. Did Jaime come?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Mr. Cole arrived with a heap of dresses and skirts cradled in his arms. None of them would fit Brienne.

She offered a small smile to the butler and gestured to her height. His eyes, steady and blue, seemed to apologize for their lack of options.

“I don’t believe any of them will fit,” Brienne said, “and I am fine in my own frock, thank you.”

“We’ll send for a frock from one of your servants,” Addam said, nodding to Mr. Cole.

“I appreciate your offer, but…” Brienne glanced between Darlessa and Addam, both waiting for her to continue. “I came here to ask for Miss Marbrand.”

Darlessa looked to Addam, who clenched his jaw. He said, “Quite peculiar timing. She’s gone missing since this morning.”

“What?”

“She said she was going for a walk,” Darlessa said.

Addam squinted. “I thought she said she was going to ride her bicycle.”

“Oh, does it really matter? She left after breakfast and skipped our last meal, so very unlike her. I was hoping to hear she ran into you,” Darlessa said to Brienne.

“No,” Brienne said and frowned. Perhaps Cersei had harmed Missandei as well.

“Have your servants had a suspicious air about them?” Addam asked.

Brienne tried to hide her scowl. “No, but a few of them are... gone.” Her name and Jaime’s name deserved no connection to Cersei’s evil plan, and Brienne hardly trusted either Mr. or Mrs. Marbrand.

“Gone?” Addam tilted his head. “As in missing?”

Darlessa’s mouth fell open and she left the room, her voice trailing down a hallway as she hollered for her servants.

Addam said, “Well, at least there isn’t a boat moored anymore or that would have been an easy departure.”

“A boat?” Brienne asked.

A strange sense of quiet came over Addam and he looked away.

“What happened to it?”

Confronted by her question, Addam responded, “I thought Jaime told you. It capsized and sank with the first Mrs. Lannister... when she washed overboard.”

Brienne’s throat tightened as the pieces connected together. She doubted Mrs. Lannister was alone at all. Everything appeared connected to Cersei, even the prior Mrs. Lannister’s death. “Was no one with her? Could not someone have gone out to her?”

“Nobody saw the accident, nobody knew she had gone. She was often alone and came back at all times of the night.”

“Was she not nervous?”

“Nervous?” he said. “No, she wasn’t nervous of anything.”

“How long before they found her?”

“Two months.”

Brienne thought it more likely to find a drowned person in two days, but two months in a state of mystery sounded torturous. “How could they tell it was her?”

“Jaime went to identify her.”

Feeling disgusted in her morbid questions, Brienne paused. She was transfixed by the possibility Cersei might have poisoned Mrs. Lannister or had thrown her overboard. Now Brienne felt like a sightseer asking to see a dead body. “I apologize for these questions—”

“The fault is mine, I brought up the boat. I’m sure they’ll all return eventually.” Addam brightened his mood and said, “Meanwhile, I’ll eat Miss Missandei’s portions to hasten my gout, as you know, it’s a wealthy disease.”

She did not laugh. He chuckled. 

His smile died. More serious, Addam said, “You should ask your remaining servants what they think. I’d be very interested to hear what they have to say.”

“I will do that,” Brienne lied, feigned a smile and curtsied. “I believe I must get on while the rain has let up.”

She left without saying goodbyes to Darlessa. Defeated, Brienne drove to Lannisport, only a handful of miles away. She visited the post and found one letter waiting for Casterly Rock, from Meadows in Wendish Town. Fingers anxious, she ripped the letter open as she stepped out into muggy, chilled air. The sea breeze washed over her.

“Dear Mrs. Brienne Lannister,—

From the period of 1882 to 1889 we received an annual payment of £450 from Tywin Lannister for the treatment of Cersei Lannister. Should you need further documentation, please write or visit us in Wendish Town.

Yours respectfully,

Ulwyck Uller  
Director  
Meadows Asylum”

A drizzle of rain began and the ink bled into the fibers of the page. Every answer she received prompted more questions. Surely, Jaime knew Cersei was enclosed in an asylum—and for years. Brienne knew little of madness, but she needed details from Jaime. Cersei and Jaime would have been young in 1882, on the cusp of adulthood, their last breaths as children… surely, he remembered the details. Brienne wished she could speak with the dead. She would ask Tywin Lannister why he paid for Cersei to be there and why she was released.

She folded the letter, returned it to the envelope and climbed into her car. The subtle rain continued as she placed the letter alongside the financial document in the car, safe from water. Across the buildings, glistening in the mid-day sun, dark clouds hovered over the mountains and cliffs near Hura Falls. Sooner or later, the water and clouds would slope down those hills and these streets would become puddles and lakes of filth. She gazed around while people crossed the streets, avoiding horses. Children danced in pools of water. Mud splashed near a woman in white, and she gasped. Not far from her, a child flung a rock against a pile of mud pies, and specks of mud fell onto an older gentleman dressed in rags—but he did not flinch, as if mud belonged to him, as if he were a magnet for dirt. 

Brienne turned her car on, rolled her neck and drove into slow traffic. The rain paused, and she rounded the building, and her eyes widened at the sight of Aenela and another maid across the street. Brienne’s car almost crashed into a horse-drawn carriage as she approached. Both maids huddled underneath a projecting roof of a wooden building. The young maid noticed Brienne first and grabbed Aenela’s arm. Guilt swarmed Brienne for not knowing her name, and by the sheer look of panic in her brown eyes, Brienne wondered if she should approach at all. Aenela looked over, releasing a breathless smile.

With the car breaks on and over its subtle hum, Brienne peered over the dash. Neither maids held an umbrella, but they were dry, unlike Brienne.

“Mrs. Lannister,” Aenela said.

“Aenela, do you know where Maevor, Valon and the others are?”

The young maid glanced at Aenela, who thought in silence.

Aenela placed her hand on the young maid’s fingers and nodded.

“Please, show me where.” Brienne gestured to the empty seats in her car, large enough to fit both of them.

The two maids whispered Valyrian to each other before climbing into the car. Aenela scooted to the middle, unaware where to place her hands. The young maid bit her lip into a tight smile.

“Can you point where?” Brienne said, pointing her fingers to the left and the right.

Aenela nodded and pointed right, her eyes frowning as she looked at Brienne’s wet dress. Both of them likely knew Brienne’s poor luck with dresses.

Following Aenela’s instruction, Brienne drove until the roads narrowed to the point her car no longer fit. The sea air barely reached her lungs once she parked the car outside weathered gray buildings, two stories tall with no windows on the side she faced. Brienne followed the maids through the narrowed pathway between buildings, entering cold shadows. One turn after another, Brienne recognized this place as a slum—the Slags.

She expected to hear everyone coughing, but the place was eerily quiet with the exception of crying infants. Mothers hung soaked fabric from the inside of their windows. Water trickled down the roofs like rain. Gone were the open airs of Lannisport and Casterly Rock... as if she entered a crowded world, a place of urban decay. It felt more humid than Lannisport, somehow. When Aenela and the young maid knocked on a wooden door, its paint peeling, Brienne waited behind them.

Maevor, with a smile, opened the door. His smile dropped when he saw Brienne.

Aenela and Maevor hushed a conversation in Valyrian. Behind them, several other servants from Casterly Rock peered through. Missandei peeked her head behind a large gardener, a great shock to Brienne.

“Missandei!” Brienne said, her voice echoing on the buildings surrounding her.

Missandei froze before she stepped forward, whispering to Maevor.

Maevor looked to the ground and nodded while he released his grip on the door and welcomed the three women inside.

Foreign scents confronted Brienne, odors of spices and herbs she hardly recognized. The apartment was small and several servants bustled in and out of the room, which was no wider than six meters. The kitchen, with its busy cook, opened into the living area. Bags and clothes littered the sides of the space as everyone likely moved here in haste.

“Are you alone?” Missandei asked.

“Yes.”

“Why are you wet? Come here.” Missandei pulled Brienne through the large room and into the kitchen. Fire churned like liquid inside the open faced oven, and several others helped Brienne take a seat near the flames to help warm and dry her. Burning air stung Brienne’s skin as though she never understood how cold she was in the first place. Missandei sat across from Brienne.

“I came to find you, but you weren’t at home. Cersei—Miss Lannister said she dismissed the entire staff. Are you all safe, is anyone hurt?” Unable to stop looking, Brienne found everyone’s eyes on her.

“All of us are safe—”

“Mr. and Mrs. Marbrand say you’re missing and are very concerned—”

“I find them far more concerned for my fortune than my well being. Neither will be their concern for much longer, I promise.”

“I don’t understand.” Brienne looked around, confused why Missandei was here. “Will you be losing your fortune? I can help with that, in fact, I have a solution that is mutually beneficial. Cersei dismissed everyone in order to force me to give up my fortune to the Lannister name. I want to give my fortune to you instead.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“My dearest Brienne, I’m afraid I don’t need it. In a few weeks time I will have the Marbrand fortune.”

“You’re going to marry your cousin so soon?” Brienne frowned, thinking of Missandei’s lover. Having already lived through the experience of separation from a man she loved, she could not stomach the thought Missandei would willingly choose to marry her cousin.

“Not at all. I will never marry him.” Missandei gave a small smirk.

“How?”

“I’ll marry another man,” Missandei said, and she looked over her shoulder. “For love, not diamonds and pearls. The pearl of my husband’s heart would be preferred by me to all the jewels in Westeros. We will marry in Dorne, receive my fortune and sail for home.”

Brienne’s lips parted in shock.

“The will stated I needed to marry in Westeros, but the actual language of the will does not state the man’s identity.”

Lips now smiling, Brienne asked, “Where is home?”

“Naath.”

“You’re leaving?”

“This place is nothing like I imagined, nothing like I remembered as a child. Someone like me, a woman of color, will not be a courted object. I wish to be unobserved—I do not want society—though there is no real disgrace attached to my situation. I prefer scenes of happiness, of youthful tranquility. I’m disappointed in Westeros. I expected to meet with sensible, liberal, well-informed and rational people, and I have not found them. I see a compound of folly and dissimulation. I will miss you, of course.”

“I’m going to miss you, too, Missandei. And I’d like to hire everyone back—at least those who are interested.” Brienne wished she could solve all of Missandei’s problems, but there was no paintbrush wide enough to change the entire canvas. One paint stroke after another, however, and Brienne hoped to make progress.

Missandei looked at the lacing on her frock. After a moment’s pause, she said, “Some will likely accept your offer. Although, as you know, some found it difficult to work there. Some have already saved up enough to return home or move somewhere new.”

“Of course, and I will change all of that. I have enough cause and evidence to put Miss Lannister away. Her behavior is of a criminal. With her gone and with enough time and money, Casterly Rock can be a new mansion. No ghosts, no more falling apart. Would more servants agree to come back with Miss Lannister away and the estate repaired?”

“I can ask…” Missandei stood, walked away and asked others for their opinions in Valyrian.

Brienne watched as several people winced or shook their head. Aenela, sitting patiently on a wooden stool, whispered to her young companion. The twenty or so servants took their time expressing their grievances to Missandei, a few louder than others. Brienne did not need to understand Valyrian to recognize their passionate decision. If anything, she felt guilt for not acting earlier.

When Missandei returned, Brienne’s dress was nearly dry from the heat of the oven. Missandei said, “Aenela, Saela, Maevor and a few others say they’re willing to come back, some say only if Miss Lannister is no longer present, but—how are you going to do this?”

Brienne leaned a hair closer and said, “I have a plan.” She thought of Jaime. “And support.”

“I want you to be careful.”

“I will.” Brienne stood and Missandei’s eyes traveled up.

“Save yourself, dearest Brienne. If I can do it, you can, too.”

They shared a hug, ending too soon. She wanted to grimace at the thought of confronting Cersei alone, which meant all the more reason to finally tell Jaime of all of her misdeeds. Brienne remembered Jaime smiling at the memory of their kiss, their moment. Surely, he would believe Brienne. Cersei tried to kill Brienne and treated her servants like objects. No human was an object. Several servants thrived at the new opportunity of future employment while others had planned their financial well being far ahead. She was a fool to think they all wanted their positions back. Listening was a start, and by the sounds of it, a select handful of servants depended on Brienne. She would not let them down.

Brienne said her goodbyes and entered the chilled autumn air. The rain had stopped and washed away most odors. Smoke climbed into the sky from rooftops. Despite the slums’ crowded buildings, the Slags had no power. Brienne stepped into her car. This place, although beaten and congested, would remain in the past like Casterly Rock if nothing changed. To upgrade Casterly Rock felt more a personal gain for herself rather than a goal for others. It already had power and almost no one used it. Brienne started her car and peered into the shadows. Why not bring power here to those who needed it the most?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A portion of Missandei’s quotes are from _The Woman of Colour_ by anonymous. I do want to talk about the white savior trope here—Brienne’s goal is to help the underserved, and she has a harder time understanding systemic racism. It’s very common in the white savior trope for a white character to save the black character(s), and I wanted to confront that harmful trope by showing Missandei and many of the servants have already worked to improve their situations without Brienne's help. However, you might have noticed Brienne is still yearning to help them, so the exploration of this trope continues. Let me know if you have questions! :) <3


	19. Chapter 19

Brienne returned to Casterly Rock and found its front doors still wide open. With the sun more than half-way through the sky, the mansion drowned in its own shadow. Casterly Rock appeared darker than she remembered. She drove to the substation under damp, glistening leaves in the sunlight. Birds sang their clashing melodies, but the lack of gardeners or Valon and Maevor gave Brienne a sickness in her stomach. She was more alone than she ever was before.

She turned off her car, connected the charger plug and checked to make sure the compartment with the document and asylum letter was locked. Her dress, now dry, fit tighter than before. Through the salty sea air, she looked to the front… and Jaime’s car was missing. The front of Casterly Rock bore witness to her presence, and wood creaked in the wind. She would not enter by herself.

Brienne walked a wide berth around the front, avoiding any sudden contact with Cersei. Brienne wondered if Casterly Rock would brighten once Cersei was gone… if she would leave without force...

“Brienne!”

Her feet froze and head snapped to the source of the sound: Jaime and Nora appeared from behind a large oak trunk. Gone were the thorns in Brienne’s heart.

He, however, tensed his brows and approached while Nora wagged her tail. The large oak leaves dripped random bits of collected rain. Dying leaves floated to the ground as the wind combed through the trees. Jaime asked, “Where have you been? Your car’s been gone, I checked Hura Falls, I walked through the grounds—”

“I left to find the servants.”

“Without telling me?”

“Without telling you?” Brienne broadened her shoulders and frowned. “Every time I tell you something, you shame me or don’t believe me.”

Jaime winced and closed his eyes. “I know—I apologize…” He clenched his jaw and looked at her. “I believe you now. The tea, the dress—” 

“The letters, the asylum, the baby… _Mrs. Lannister._ ” Brienne’s eyes welled and she shook her head, unable to believe his words. In front of her, Jaime grimaced as if he might start crying as well. She continued, “You must believe that I know Cersei’s secrets, _these_ secrets.”

Hand on his forehead, Jaime looked away. “I—we’ve been close ever since I can remember.”

His reaction, his voice, so vulnerable, encouraged her to ask, “What happened to the boy?”

Jaime frowned before he looked at her. “He died. He was sick.”

Nora sat beside Brienne, pointing her ears in search of squirrels finishing their autumn tasks. Cersei was likely an unwed mother, a sure outcast to society. It explained why she never left this place, but nothing justified her actions. Brienne shook her head and said, “I need to confront her.”

“No, not like this. We need to talk more without her listening. This way.”

In his black frock coat, vest and trousers, Jaime led them through the trail away from the house. Several steps in, the ground was less wet than she expected—twigs still snapped under the weight of her feet. His verbal support comforted her as they walked, though part of her wanted to call Jaime a liar—he could not have possibly believed her. At the very least, if he did not, she had more than enough evidence to prove Cersei’s guilt. 

“You believe me…” she asked once they walked in the forest. “You believe me that she’s poisoning me?”

“I do.” Jaime’s throat bobbed as he stepped over a fallen log across the path. “Once you walked down in that dress…” He stared at the dirt. “I confronted her and it seemed she would stop—”

“You never called a doctor.”

“I did. She turned him away when he came. I’m a fool for believing everything she said.”

“You didn’t think to tell me? All this time I thought—”

“I know, I’ve been foolish, so foolish.” Jaime shook his head, winced and looked at Brienne with pain. “I convinced myself we could fix this, I could fix this. I should have never brought you into this. I should have never brought you to Casterly Rock. I don’t know what we were thinking.”

Brienne’s eyes fixed on Nora as they walked along the trail. To the right, beyond soldier pines, freckles of small white crocus flowers huddled near an oak trunk, weaving through and above mature roots. They reminded her of the white begonia, one of the struggling sets of flowers near the house. These plants, like her, were sensitive to harsh elements. Brienne could not stop the rain, but she could stop Cersei. 

“She won’t stop,” Brienne said. “I can feel it. Either she needs to leave or we do. I do.”

Jaime nodded while they walked. His hands hid his pockets, and Brienne rubbed her fingernails between her own fingers. He agreed with her, and the realization made her chest race.

“Why was she in the asylum?” she asked.

“Our father wanted to punish her.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, being a woman? I barely knew my father, barely knew why he had children if he despised them all.” Jaime grimaced and furrowed his brows. “I never thought I’d have children.”

Brienne’s throat tightened. She considered asking why he never had children with Mrs. Lannister if he loved her. If he hated his father so much, perhaps the hatred influenced his decision. His father locked Jaime and Cersei away as children in the attic. Jaime was not too old to be a father, and Brienne’s heart blushed at the thought of happiness with a family—her family—their family. So much had changed since she had met Jaime, since she agreed to marry him for convenience. Where there once was a barren field of dirt, there was now a lush and flowering forest of connection. Her heart poured as much love for him as Hura Falls poured water, now more than ever. He believed her… _he believed her._

Almost a whisper, Brienne asked, “And still?”

His pace slowed when he stared at her, his own cheeks reddening. He flashed a shy smile and said, “It’s entirely up to you—I play a small part in the process. I don’t find my opinion worth its weight in gold.”

Brienne dropped her fussing hands and bit into her lip. She made him _blush._ Thoughts of Cersei evaporated away as if they never existed. Brienne said, “A father plays a very important role to the child.”

“Some fathers, yes.”

They climbed a slope, deceivingly steeper than her eyes expected, and their steps slowed while they approached the field of carnations. She hoped the flowers still bloomed and the valley would make her smile as it did before. There was an indescribable peace about being alone with Jaime in nature. Nora ran ahead and steered to the left, seeking an unknown scent. 

“Even absent fathers play a role,” Brienne said. “Absent mothers, as well. Like you said once, we don’t choose where or how we are born but it is up to us to make the best of our circumstances.”

At the top of the small hill, they stood above the field of carnations. The sun, at just the right afternoon angle, made the thousands of flowers resemble vibrant wildfire—as if one of the seven heavens could be a fire of red. This place, with its shocking and enchanting powers, belonged to one of the gods. Liquid notes of blackbird filled the air with harmony and Brienne breathed in damp scents of bitter earth. She needed to visit this field more often, even when the flowers would die with the first freeze. The stream, so small compared to the river closer to the house or Hura Falls, appeared fuller than what she remembered. After the cold claimed all of this, she would continue to find beauty here.

She stepped forward, out of the shade and into light, parting dozens of flowers as she walked through the field. Her steps, careful not to step on stems, slowed the red blossoms’ bounce at the height of her calves—dragging across the gold fabric of her skirt. Sunlight warmed her back.

Jaime, following behind, said, “I fear I’ve not made the best of my circumstances with you.”

Brienne stopped. She, too, made mistakes. She faced him. His hair glowed golden in the sunlight behind him and she squinted. “Why not change?”

“Change what?”

“Change everything. Let’s fix Casterly Rock. Let’s help the underserved in the slums. Let’s build another power house downstream to bring even more power to Lannisport.”

Her tender heart smiled with Jaime as he stared in awe of her, but his expression soon grimaced. 

She shook her head and frowned. The past clouded him into doubt, whether it was Casterly Rock’s haunted history, Cersei or Mrs. Lannister. Brienne refused to let the three of them win. “You find me naive, don’t you? You may be right, we can’t change everything. I never expected to grow…” she turned her heated face to the side and said, “to grow so fond of you, but... I find it hard to ask you to forget the love of your life.”

At her words, Jaime’s mouth dropped. He stepped forward and looked her in her eyes. “She is not the love of my life, not at all. She is a mistake—a stupid, childish mistake I wish I could take back. I can’t believe, after everything I’ve done, you—Brienne, you are the love of my life.”

Petrified, unlike the gentle sways of flowers around them, Brienne asked, “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Jaime stepped closer and stopped a few centimeters from her. “I may have been blind when I pursued you because of her, but it turns out she is the one who made me blind in the first place.”

Brienne found it difficult to swallow and glanced away. “You speak as if she’s here, right now. You’re always in the past.” 

Jaime, a man who _loved_ her, trusted her, believed her, winced in pain like he agreed with her. His agony gave her a strange sense of hope. When she gazed at him, he looked down. 

She reached out and held his arm. “You won’t find me there.”

He pulled out his watch from his pocket and looked—it was close to four—in time for afternoon tea. 

Her heart, so confused, pounded in her chest while he looked at the past, its calls ticking. Lips faintly quivering, she said, “You’re going back... for tea?”

It should not have surprised her when his fist clenched around the watch. Her words made him cross yet again, but she did not regret using them. She straightened her posture and prepared herself to watch him leave. He frightened her, however, when he unclasped the watch and threw it to the ground. 

“Forget the tea,” he said, voice dark and urgent. “Forget the past.” He reached forward, cupped both of her cheeks and kissed her.

Silence surrounded her. He went on kissing her, hungry, desperate and murmuring her name. The shock affected her until she closed her eyes and returned his affection, invigorated by his choice to stay with her and the privacy of the field. There would be no one to interrupt—without the past or the future.

It was as if their kiss earlier in the day had never stopped, and her mind returned to the power house; its machinery was louder than the hammering of her pulse in her ears. His taste filled her and lingered when his lips trailed down her chin and onto her neck. She opened her eyes to see a deep blue sky littered with clouds. Every continuing second of his lips on her skin healed her further—none of this was a dream, he meant all of it. He said her name again as he pulled out the bodice pin against her throat.

Brienne helped him unbutton the bodice around her chest. His passionate eyes waited for the last button to unclasp before he dove after her exposed collar bone, no longer chilled from the autumn air, so long as his lips covered it. Her skin flushed with heat regardless if he touched her or not. She moaned and kissed his forehead. His hands vanished behind her and found the ties of her corset, yanking the lace loose. He unraveled her. It was the first time she heard him moan, just before his hand tugged down the tops of her chemise and corset to reveal her breast. The sight made her gasp and the feeling of his lips made her weak, as weak as the flowers around them. She buckled under her own weight, and his hands guided her to the ground.

Clouds of red surrounded her once she laid her back to the ground. Not a bit of her cared if the flowers stained her dress, or if she bruised these plants—the passion of carnations matched hers. Jaime hovered over her, his lips wet and swollen; his eyes admired her, dancing back and forth between her own. Her exposed chest rippled in gooseflesh and missed the warmth of his mouth, but the sight of his greed—for her—tasted sweeter than warmth.

He kissed her again. Her arms wrapped around his back, enveloping his body around hers. Her body knew nothing except to enjoy him and the maze of his back; her fingers burned across his black frock coat. Her lip disappeared between his, the scent of him inescapable. Now an arch, her curved back froze when she felt his hand sneak underneath her skirt and petticoat. Fabric dragged across her skin along with his hand trailing over the lines of garters on the outside of her legs. She worried he would mention how short her stockings were, as she could never find stockings high enough to cover her knees; she was too tall. He said nothing. His hand crept higher, over her knees and under her open drawers. She expected his touch to be cold, but she never felt anything quite like it—his skin like a melody on hers, almost ticklish. 

Higher he continued and their kiss broke the moment his hand reached between her thighs. Now, his hand felt cold, but his sinful moan and sensitive touch gave her more excitement than she knew possible. She opened her eyes to find his eyes closed, and whimpers escaped her while he stroked her. These foreign sensations gave her rush after rush, each stronger than the last. Her hands found nothing useful to do except clench his coat.

“Brienne,” he said.

Her glossed eyes abandoned their unfocused gaze at the sky and looked at him. A breeze brushed over them both and a handful of carnations quivered near his face. The cold wind compared little to the heat swirling between them. Yet, when Jaime gave her a lasting kiss before descending down the length of her body, she tensed and chilled.

His face lowered and lowered, eyes brazen. He lifted her skirts and disappeared under them. The bottom of her lip vanished between her teeth, and heat flooded her cheeks. Fabrics bunched as he pushed them up, and the cold ground shocked the skin of her legs. Both of his hands reached under her seat to hold her up—she had no idea what to expect, and the sharp stubble against her inner thigh gave her jolt. Half-way up her thigh, he sucked and licked her sensitive skin into his mouth.

She raised her head to look, and he curled his body between her thighs, his knees pressed into the dirt. She barely saw the top of his head—lost under her clothes. She heard a pop and his suction released her skin. Her hands, so foolish and caught off guard, remained still until her skirts were pushed higher. Brienne reached for them and pulled, flattening the fabrics as best as she could to see him.

A red bruise stained the skin where he kissed her, and his head nestled against the shivering muscle of her thigh. His hands, still under her, clawed into her when he leaned closer. Between her open cotton drawers, she watched his mouth disappear between her curls.

Like her dream, he tasted her—and the sensation could not have been more shocking—her toes flexed and pressed into her boots, lifting her. His hands continued to hold her while his lips and tongue lapped at her. She covered her mouth with one hand and held his face with the other, unable to believe the sight of his nose buried in her curls and his eyes closed in pleasure.

Her knees, open to the cold air, shook with the rising tension within her—her body unable to stop squirming. Every centimeter of skin shivered in chill with the exception of the few places he touched. Her mind, losing focus on the world around her, began to burn white as her heart raced faster. The pressure built harder and harder until she was afraid she might burst—her fingers tangled in the short waves of his hair, and she lurched up when the intensity almost crushed her—

“Jaime—”

The pleasure stopped once he pulled back to gaze at her, his expression as determined as the sun behind him. Aches, all swelled at the base of her spine and not in her heart, begged her to reach for him. She did.

He crawled up to her, the scent of herself on his lips and tongue. “Brienne.”

It was her he wanted, _her._ All this time… she had worried he never had room in his heart to love her, and she had been wrong. Brienne smiled through the tense uncomfortableness of laying on the cold ground, her body a storm of emotions and feelings she hardly recognized. He returned her smile with his own grin, cradling her face and reaching his other hand between them. His body, pressed onto hers, warmed her—although, the weight gave her anxiety as if she was about to dive off a cliff—her heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

He lowered his trousers and the glimpse of his cock made Brienne’s cheeks burn. She hardly knew what to do. Every new movement felt different: the spread of her legs to bring him closer to her, the skin of his bare thighs against hers—much warmer than she anticipated. The edge of his cock, hard and distracting, brushed against the once untouched parts of her inner thighs, feeling no different than the delicate petals dragging over her knees.

The flowers walled them in as thick as a castle wall. Above and below, she was surrounded by the earth, Jaime and the open sky. She had never felt so surrounded by love.

Brienne looked to see Jaime’s head pressed onto her chest. She reached for him and intertwined her legs with his, pulling him closer. Jaime thrust forward. The edge of his cock pushed into her—she gasped and curled closer to him once her hands clenched at the back of his head. He stopped and looked up, their foreheads a few centimeters apart. They both breathed as if they had cycled up the hills, and the call of the blackbird reminded her they were perfectly safe in a romantic paradise.

Jaime lifted his eyes to look at her. She shivered under his gaze, so vulnerable and familiar. Before he said anything, she nodded faintly. He drifted his eyes closed while the two of them quivered in each other’s arms, his cock slowly pressing into her. Nothing had ever felt so intimate.

He fell under a spell, one Brienne could not name, and he melted over her with moans. She held him closer and whimpered when he moved inside her, a strange feeling so pleasantly invading she focused on nothing else. He thrust again, and they moaned together, like they had always belonged like this. The gooseflesh on her chest and legs no longer bothered her.

She lifted her seat and he thrust further into her with a loud groan. The sounds of his pleasure gave her far more shivers than the cold air—and soon enough, with every thrust, he tugged and pulled her with him—the aching tension at the base of her back returned with a vengeance. Her fingers splayed across his back, digging into his coat until she worried she might break the seam. His grunts urged her to continue, and she released her bottom lip between her teeth to breathe more air.

Forehead nestled at her neck, his breath washed over her chest, her nipple almost as sensitive as the pounding heart underneath it. His thrusts and gusts of air turned more exerted. One of his hands gripped the loose bodice at her hip when he drove forward, energy increasing with every grunt, moan and breath.

Her hands stretched for his hips, soft yet firm under her touch. The feeling of the endless, unknown chase of pleasure made her grip him harder and arch her back—their connection deepened, their expressions both lost in charged bliss. The pressure, however, amplified to the point she could not ignore it, and similar to her dream, the sudden charge released into a rush of strength and thrill. Her lips parted with a swelling moan, so shocked at her body’s reaction—she hardly noticed his own electric tension of release until she felt weak pulses inside her; his breath covered over her skin. He remained still except his labored breathing.

Borderline sweating, they lay there, heart over heart. Happiness flooded over her. She defeated the dead and gained a lover—her husband.

She no longer worried about Mrs. Lannister; Brienne was Mrs. Lannister.


	20. Chapter 20

On the cold ground, Jaime and Brienne lay together in a tangle. He offered her his coat, which she denied with a smile. She had never felt warmer. Once settled, she rested her head on his chest, and he encouraged her to lean on him—a thought so frightening she hesitated. In the end, she relaxed into a welcome embrace with her husband. Underneath her, he drifted off to sleep. His heart slowed to a peaceful rhythm. 

Her world, full of color, remained far away from slumber. She found it impossible not to think about how everything felt, a perpetual warmth and sense of joy she could not erase. Her loosened corset and bodice made her feel naked, a feeling she welcomed. The pleasant moment she shared with him replayed in her mind over and over again. Such happiness filled her chest, and she had to remind herself to breathe. Brienne focused on Jaime’s cuffs, stained red with pigment. His jaw clenched and relaxed while he slept. She was finally able to watch him sleep—without shame or remorse.

Nora emerged from the wall of carnations and marched over. As she did on her favorite rug in the library, she turned in many circles before lying down. Brienne lost count. Nora curled into a ball, nestling next to Jaime. Brienne admired the glisten in Nora’s coat. Five or so prickly seeds stuck out in her fur.

Brienne whispered, “I’ll brush you tonight, I promise.” 

By the sound of her voice, Jaime awoke. He breathed in the chilled afternoon air while her heart startled.

His eyes looked around, and his hands held Brienne closer. The heat of him distracted her from the autumn breeze, which was strong enough to pluck the year’s dying leaves off their oak branches. Now a fiery orange, the leaves floated through the air like silent ghosts. Leaves took their time to fall to the ground as if they desperately wished they could reattach to their tree and start again with new life in the new spring. 

Jaime leaned up, and Brienne followed him. They sat facing one another, able to see their mutual stains. He remained mostly unscathed with only marks on his cuffs. She, however, found carnation stains on the back of her skirts and sleeves—and she smiled. 

After he closed his trousers, he turned to Brienne and kissed her. His lips were cold, soon warming under hers. The kiss tasted familiar for the first time, and she imagined years of blissful enjoyment ahead of her. She watched him when he pulled back and offered his hands to fix her corset. Every pull, push and twirl of her body under his hands were delicate and deliberate. He pulled the laces of her corset, asking her if she wanted it tighter. She smiled, although he could not see it, and when she told him how she liked her corset, he listened. The tug of her bodice and memories of his hands unbuttoning her gave her pause. 

He brushed her mess of hair away from her and kissed the back of her neck. “I must say, I don’t know what to do about your hair.”

Brienne smiled and reached back, pulling the loose pin. She pinned her hair into a low bun and said, “I don’t want to leave.”

“I don’t either.” Jaime moved in front of her, his knees near hers. Her skirts spread out across the flattened area they created. He reached for her hand when she finished. “We’ll come back,” he said.

The sun was dying. Cooler air chilled them both to the point they no longer could stand it. They stood, both knowing what challenge faced them. She wanted to ignore the cold, but even Nora began to shiver. Jaime put his arms around Brienne and lifted her against him. They kissed again—feverishly, desperately, like guilty lovers who had not kissed before.

As they walked back, a foggy dew appeared on the edges of grass and plants. Leaves squished and twigs snapped under their feet. Fog rolled in along with the cold, quiet smell of autumn. Far ahead, a blackbird ran across the path in swift, short rushes, stopping to stab the earth with his yellow beak. Brienne’s worries had no power to alter nature and life continued, regardless of the hauntings at Casterly Rock. Every step closer gave her heart more dread, even if Jaime stood by her side and Nora trotted ahead. Every moment was a precious thing, having in it the essence of finality.

The heavy doors to Casterly Rock were closed. Not a light glowed inside. If Brienne had a choice, she would never enter again. Other than her books, she cared for nothing within those walls—except her promise as an employer. The thought of abandoning her promise made her stomach uneasy. When given the chance to listen and patience to think through her thoughts, she knew several of the servants depended on her for income. How could she go back on her word and abandon them?

Out of the tail of Brienne’s eye, she watched Nora chase a rabbit across the lawn. Running after a dog in the afternoon breeze felt foolish, even more so when Jaime remained behind and stared at the crumbling house before them. Brienne turned a corner and found Nora in the place of Brienne’s missing electric car. It was gone. Nora sniffed the air.

“Jaime!” Brienne shouted. Her nails itched.

He abandoned his ascent to the front doors and met Brienne around the corner. The roll of his neck gave her the impression he, too, felt anxious. “She took your car,” he said.

“The financial document is in there.”

“My car is on the east side. She’s gone to Hura Falls, that’s the only other place she can go.”

Brienne’s thoughts turned away from their intimate union as she jogged across gravel. The urgency of finding Cersei claimed every priority. Cersei’s tactics had become even more unpredictable, and Brienne placed full trust in Jaime to find her. 

Nora followed closely behind as they arrived at his gasoline car. Jaime cranked the car while Brienne told Nora to run off to the substation for shelter, but she would not listen. The poor dog wined and wagged her tail. Brienne winced and twisted her hands on her skirts.

“Jaime, let’s bring Nora.”

“What?”

“What if it rains?”

He placed one hand on the gear lever and the other on the wheel, staring at the dash in front of him. “Rain would do us good and soon.” He looked over at Brienne and paused. “Come on, get her in.”

Brienne hoisted Nora in, who promptly settled between the two of them. Jaime rolled the car backwards first and Brienne grabbed onto Nora to stabilize her. 

The ride through the grounds was eerily quiet. Birds no longer sang. Dark clouds loomed overhead. What little leaves remained on trees barely whispered in the wind—a humid threat of oncoming rain. Brienne wondered what Cersei would do with the document, or if she found the letter from the asylum. The worst Cersei could do was forge the document and burn the letter, and Brienne thought of who she would contact to prove Cersei’s violations.

Jaime changed the gear as they climbed a hill and reached for her hand. His comfort gave Brienne the courage to ask, “Why would Cersei want to kill me? Do you know?”

He squeezed her hand, never looking at her. “She’s jealous. She wants your money, and she wants you gone, I suppose.”

“Did she take Mrs. Lannister’s money?” 

In the darkening air, Jaime tilted his head and furrowed his brow. “Who?”

“The previous Mrs. Lannister.” Brienne never wanted to say her name again. “I mean Pia.” The name lingered, dancing before her. Pia’s name magnified into something heinous and appalling, a forbidden word, unnatural to the tongue. She could not call it back. 

Jaime paled. The car slowed to a stop, and he forced the car into park. Their backs leaned against the backseat. His face, lips now parted, reluctantly looked at Brienne beside him.

Perhaps he did not hear her over the engine or the swirling wind around them, growing stronger with every minute. The storm Brienne saw hours earlier had stubbornly placed itself ahead of Hura Falls, likely pouring out its sorrow over the green mountains and valleys leading to Lannisport and the sea. She would not let a storm or a name scare her. If anything, Brienne felt empowered to say Pia’s name again. The woman, a woman Jaime no longer loved, had no power and was likely innocent. “Pia’s money.”

He had heard her because his eyes looked over with a subtle sadness; but it was not the gulf of distance Brienne experienced for months whenever she mentioned his previous wife. Jaime appeared rather… hurt. He leaned closer to Brienne and pressed his forehead onto hers, all while Nora crouched between them. His hand held Brienne’s cheek before he said gently, “I love you.”

A drop of rain tapped her hair, knocking her into an odd state of confusion. He never answered her. Jaime pulled away, stopped the brakes and continued to drive up the hill. One drop fell onto a carnation stain on her sleeve, but the red did not wash away. On the contrary, the stain darkened like blood. Brienne held Nora closer.

Lights glowed in the darkness as they approached Hura Falls, along with the louder hum and whispers of the waterfall. Next to the transformer building was Brienne’s car, parked at an angle.

“I’ll check the caverns for her and damage,” Jaime said once he parked his car. “Do you want to come with me?”

Brienne loosened her grip on Nora and imagined the dog flailing around in the elevator or losing her hearing in the cavern. “No. We’ll stay up here.”

“I’ll meet you under that roof eave. Stay out of the rain.”

He hopped out of the car and the rain increased. Nora and Brienne stepped under a tree. Rain pattered against pine leaves. Through a patch of open sky, the moon watched her. A strange pit at the bottom of her stomach twisted her insides. This rain, if it had been raining for hours upstream, would significantly increase the flow of water to the river—a potentially dangerous situation. 

Brienne walked to the transformer house to talk with the oiler, but Nora refused to follow. The buzzing erupting from inside scared her, and she preferred to shelter under a grove of soldier pines. 

The door creaked when Brienne opened it, and inside the dim glow of the transformer building, the oiler was not there. Across the set of thirty transformers, all humming with the sound of life, stood Cersei in a white, low neck flowing nightgown. Around her, a loose green silk, sleeveless robe tied around her with a crimson silk belt. Cersei looked like another person entirely. She was without any form of restriction—even her blonde hair braided loosely—no corset, no tight teal dress. Her shoulder, bare like cream, poked through one side of the nightgown—her mask gone.

Brienne squared her shoulders. 

Nightgown dragging across the floor, Cersei approached slowly. In a sense, Brienne knew, Cersei’s pretending had stopped. Cersei’s lips tensed and she played with her left hand, pressing her finger with her thumbs.

And yet, when Cersei stepped closer, only a couple meters away, she stopped and stared at Brienne’s face. It was Brienne’s turn to look triumphant. Cersei had been defeated; the game was over. A small smile sprouted on Brienne’s lips. All Brienne needed to do was wait for Jaime to arrive. She did not need to ask Cersei questions, such as why she drove Brienne’s car to Hura Falls in her nightgown. Brienne did not care.

Cersei forced a smile. “Where were you?”

Standing still, Brienne blinked. This woman implied Brienne was in the wrong, and for what? Brienne asked, “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t come for tea. Your car was home.” Cersei’s voice lost its judgement and a sweetness took its place.

Brienne frowned. This woman’s control over Jaime’s every move had gone on too long. He was not obligated to attend every afternoon tea, especially when he declined tea almost every time. Jaime did not decline Brienne—he accepted her—he loved her. Brienne cheeks warmed when she said, “We went for a walk.”

Cersei narrowed and intensified towards Brienne. Her green eyes caught sight of the red stains on Brienne’s skirts. Cersei’s gaze crawled up the length of Brienne’s body. Surely, and pleasantly, the carnations stained Brienne’s heart as well. Her cheeks likely burned as red as the stains. Cersei’s brows furrowed when she looked at Brienne’s throat. The twitch of her lips made Brienne reach for the top of her bodice, where Cersei stared. Under her own fingers, she felt the pin of her bodice was missing, likely left in the field when Jaime undressed her. 

Clenching her fists, Cersei bared her teeth and heaved forward—her dress rippling in the air and her face as black as thunder. She stopped within a few centimeters of Brienne, body and presence larger than Brienne thought possible. “You slept with him,” she growled.

Palms full of sweat and her heart racing, Brienne winced and said, “What’s wrong with that, Cersei? He’s my husband.”

Cersei pulled back, inhaled a shaky breath and turned to the side. In a softer voice, still full of hatred, she said, “It’s all a game to you. I was frantic.”

Tears threatening to fall, Brienne shook her head. Cersei acted as if Brienne ruined Cersei’s life, as if Brienne’s act of lust was forbidden. “What are you talking about?”

“You two,” Cersei said, almost whispering. “Alone.” She looked at the rain through a window. “I didn’t know if you had an accident. I was all alone. I can’t be alone.”

Cersei made everything about herself, every little detail—whether it was Brienne’s dress or Jaime’s hair. Brienne knew loneliness. Abandonment and solitude excused nothing of Cersei’s behavior, her plots, her schemes. This woman had done something horrible before, Brienne could feel it. Perhaps she murdered Pia, and Pia was a beautiful, rich woman Jaime fell in love with—once. Perhaps Cersei murdered her father or a septa. The look in Cersei’s eyes said it all. She was evil. 

Brienne tensed and said, “Jaime knows about you. About what you’ve done.”

Rain pattered against the roof. Loud whispers of the waterfall permeated the brick walls and glass windows of the building. Cersei’s light hand lingered on the window paneling. She turned, her eyes ready to stare at Brienne as they did before, never blinking. Cersei’s chin lifted while she twisted a faint smile. The small scar above her lip seemed more pale. “My dear,” Cersei said, “Jaime helped. He can take as much credit as me.”

Brienne shook her head and gave an ugly grimace. “How dare you lie.”

“Lie?” Cersei faced her.

“He’s an honorable and loyal man.” Brienne could not stand the defamation of his character. For months, Pia and Cersei wedged their way between Jaime and Brienne—and Brienne would allow it no longer. No matter how much Cersei approved of Pia, whether her approval was a lie—not a bit of it mattered in the present. “I won’t let you force another woman between us.”

Cersei gave a pout, an expression of pity. She blinked once and soon smiled. “Dear Brienne, you don’t understand. Jaime is mine, not yours. My lover, not yours.” Cersei frowned. “You are the other woman. Not me.”

Brienne squinted, unsure of what she just heard. It turned quiet. A trickle of perspiration or lingering raindrop trickled down her neck. Her head went swimming, and she felt fevered. In front of her, Cersei remained as calm as the sea.

This woman wedged her barrier between Jaime and Brienne. The shock confronted Brienne, and denial rushed to defend herself. Her jaw, now quivering, knew the reality. This woman’s motivations, looks and actions all pointed towards resentment. Numbness flooded in… as if someone took Brienne’s hand and left a stump of a wrist. Her desperate mind wanted to cling to reality, the reality of Jaime’s loyalty, but his loyalty was not there.

This woman was Pia, a woman claiming to be Jaime’s sister in order to live with him. If they had been married, Pia’s death certificate was not legal… and this meant Jaime would still be married to his previous wife. Brienne had been tricked—more than once. Not only was this affair corrupt, but they both _lied_ to her and said she was Cersei Lannister, his _twin._

Brienne glared at the woman while she smiled and approached slowly.

With wide shoulders, Brienne grit her teeth and said, “You’re not his sister.”

“That’s delightful.” Brienne’s emerald ring, resting on her left hand, was ripped off her finger by the woman’s tenacious grasp. “I am.” 

Squeezing her hands together, Cersei stared at Brienne’s hand and said, “Jaime and I are more than brother and sister.” She spoke as if she lived in a dream. Her eyes lifted to look into Brienne’s. “We are one person in two bodies. When he is in me, I feel… whole. I am Mrs. Lannister.”


	21. Chapter 21

There _was_ something more intimate than a sexual embrace: a horrible lie.

Jaime had been sleeping with his _sister._

Fear entered Brienne—a furtive unrest, struggling at length to blind unreasonable panic. Her left hand burned from where Cersei, Jaime’s _twin_ , ripped off her emerald ring. She remembered Jaime offering the ring in the hotel, months ago in King’s Landing. Cersei had stared at those emeralds ever since Brienne arrived at Casterly Rock. The ring was never Brienne’s. Perhaps Cersei was right… Jaime participated in all of this. His betrayal sliced through her like a knife through a flower stem—and she was the budding blossom that failed to bloom.

Cersei placed the ring on her left hand and splayed her fingers. She picked off bits of invisible dust. Tightening the metal band around her finger, Cersei said, “We had several women to choose from. Dorne. Essos.”

Brienne scowled. “King’s Landing.”

“Yes, King’s Landing.” Cersei smiled and lifted her chin. “The next few wives, if we still need money, will be from somewhere else. All wives must have what is necessary: money, broken dreams and no living relatives. No one will ever look for them.”

Jaime and Cersei planned everything, every move, every action. Brienne was their victim. Jaime had admitted he wanted to marry Brienne for wealth—he admitted his sister wanted him to marry, but he neglected to say they planned to _murder_ her. He used her… far more than she imagined possible. They found her as easy bait—a young, rich woman without family—and she had been so close to _declining_ him. She wished she could surrender her five senses to return to peace, to return to a time where he did not look at her with feigned love, to return to a time where the Lannister name remained unknown to her.

And yet, Brienne thought of Pia. It occurred to Brienne that she might not have been the first victim of this pair. “Was there ever a Pia?”

“Of course,” Cersei said with a faint grin. “A poor little thing from the slums. She went missing, and I took her name, her identity.”

“The woman Jaime identified as Pia—”

“Jaime protected me and lied,” Cersei said. “They found some decomposed body that washed ashore.” 

“And the baby? Joffrey was Pia’s?”

Cersei winced at his name. She closed her eyes and remained still... until a small smile of scorn grew on her lips. Her eyes opened to watch Brienne. “Don’t you understand? The poor Pia never fucked Jaime. Never married Jaime. Pia and Jaime barely said a word to each other. I went by the name Pia for years. Joffrey was mine. Ours.”

Reality flooded into Brienne. She was petrified, unsure of when the horrors would release her from her world of denial. When Renly mentioned the beauty of Mrs. Lannister, he meant the beauty of Cersei. When Jaime rushed in excitement to return home, it was because of Cersei. When Brienne walked down the steps in her crimson dress, it was a remake of Cersei’s dress, not Pia’s. Cersei and Jaime, in their twisted minds, used a missing woman’s name to feign their ill-conceived marriage—and they had a _son._ How did no one know? Brienne thought of their dead mother, dead father and limited family. Cersei had been in an asylum for many years, and the siblings likely saw her freedom as an opportunity for a new identity.

“What happened?” Brienne asked.

Cersei looked at the floor, lost in her memories. “He was born wrong, but I wanted him. When that _septa_ found out our secret, she threatened us. I would be sent away.” Cersei glared at Brienne like she knew her plan to send Cersei away. “Jaime would be hanged if we were found out. Our son... We lost a great deal of our fortune paying her to keep her quiet. I needed to fake my death and hide away.”

Brienne thought of Septa Unella and her glares; the Lannister name deserved them. Brienne pieced the bits together, how Cersei had almost never left the house, how she had never greeted Addam or Darlessa and how all previous servants had been fired to hide their secret. Cersei’s past explained why they hired immigrant servants who spoke little Common Tongue. All of it was to protect Cersei and allow her to live with Jaime—her lover. The thought made Brienne sick. And yet, it was obvious to her that Cersei perpetually grieved at her loss of happiness. She could never dance again with her brother in public without someone recognizing her as the dead Mrs. Lannister. She could never stroll the streets with Jaime as a happily married couple. She could never have another child without an illegitimate title. Cersei must have grieved hardest when Joffrey was taken from her.

“The septa took the baby,” Brienne said.

“I killed him.”

Brienne’s lower jaw quivered while bitter tears swelled.

Cersei clenched her fists and said, “I would never let another woman touch my baby. Never.” She looked at her ring. “Joffrey was sick, but he suffers no longer.”

“All this horror?” Brienne shook her head at Cersei’s lack of guilt. “For what? The money? To keep the mansion? The Lannister name? The power house?”

With her gaze fixed on the ring, Cersei softened for a moment. “The marriage was for money, of course,” she whispered. “But the horror, the horror was for love.” Cersei adjusted the ring on her hand before she looked at the ceiling. Rain continued to patter. “The things we do for a love like this are ugly. Mad. Full of sweat and regret. This love burns you and maims you and twists you inside out. It is a monstrous love, and it makes monsters of us all.” Cersei looked at Brienne. “You should have seen him as a child. Jaime. He was perfect.”

Jaime was anything but perfect. His name felt like a knife twisting in Brienne’s belly. If only she had seen the signs earlier… If only her father had not died…

Brienne’s heart turned into lead. “You said Dorne, earlier,” she said, thinking of her father’s accident. “Did he go to Dorne?”

Cersei gave her freezing, superior smile. “ _I_ went to Dorne.”

All of this was schemed from the very beginning, before Brienne knew it was happening. Jaime was inspired with the idea of serving Lannisport, and he needed more money to achieve his goal. Cersei wanted to continue living with him, continue loving him, and their plan was to have Jaime marry an isolated, rich woman. Brienne was not secluded until her father passed, and yet, the Lannister siblings knew this. Cersei visited Dorne, a place where no one would recognize her, where Brienne’s father died— 

“He loved you,” Cersei said, forcing a grin full of pity. Slowly, she stepped closer. “You should have seen his face when I pushed him into that machinery.”

The lights flickered like a dark hand before a face. Memories of her father returned with a vengeance, and Brienne was unable to suppress the hurt of his painful loss. She felt like a spirit—numb to everything around her, including Cersei’s subtle smiles. When Brienne turned and walked out of the transformer building, the rain hardly affected her. Brienne needed to leave, to escape. She received her earlier wish and lost all of her senses, stepping into a dark world devoid of any feeling. Cersei was not simply evil, she was a monster.

Cersei’s brother, desperately trying to walk under the canopy of pine trees, approached while Nora barked from under the eaves of the building. 

With his jaw clenched, he came closer and hesitated. As sharp as a sword, a shadow came between them. Every drop of rain on a pine needle, branch, brick or rock was louder than her broken heart.

His intentions, so clear when she saw all the pieces, crushed her spirits. She would have preferred to stay in King’s Landing than risk her life and her heart at Casterly Rock. Fame was not worth the pain. Brienne spoke with venom and said, “You lied to me!”

Jaime poorly hid his wince. “I did.” He stepped in front of her, his hands up and in surrender.

Brienne stepped away, facing him as she walked further into the pouring rain. Nora whined and followed. Jaime’s jaw pushed forward—as if he could never speak the truth, never explain why he lied to her, tried to kill her—every time Brienne mentioned Mrs. Lannister’s or Pia’s name he _knew_ she believed in a horrible lie and he did _nothing_ to correct her. Cersei made herself clear from the start, but Jaime—his lies hurt more than drinking oleander tea. Brienne hunched her shoulders forward. Jaime followed her, still cautious and insistent. 

“You poisoned me,” she cried. Tears filled her eyes again.

He stepped into the rain to follow her, barely a meter out of her reach. “Brienne, I did n—” 

“You told me you loved me.” She sounded like a child, an abandoned crying child left in the rain.

“I _do._ ”

She shook her head. 

“Brienne, please.” He reached forward and clasped her shoulders. Brienne tried to yank herself back, suddenly aware of his tenacious presence, but his fingers gripped the soaked fabric of her puffed sleeves. The moon, hiding behind a blanket of thinned clouds, allowed an eerie glow of faint light—enough to see Jaime’s impassioned eyes staring firmly into hers. They no longer burned red. His lips quivered. “Trust me one more time.” More urgently, he said, “You can leave if you want, or you can wait here. I will take care of this, finally.”

He left her. Jaime marched towards the transformer house. Rain poured down. Brienne decided to leave.

Nora followed her as she walked along the path, over miniature streams of rainwater trickling underneath her boots. Hura Falls roared. She had no interest in walking near the transformer house. Instead, Brienne walked along the riverbed. She would rather suffer from cold rain than Cersei, and the lack of looming trees gave Brienne a sense of protection.

The river swelled to the highest point she had seen it reach. Logs piled together against rocks, and water raced around the dead trees without remorse. 

Brienne walked along the powerful river. The several meter high dam poured water over the top as if a bath overflowed. Rain drenched the mountains all day, and this was its dangerous consequence. Jagged logs and twigs piled behind the dam at the top. Behind the dam, in the cliffed edges of the river, even more water piled and pressed against the temporary dam. Nature was barely contained.

Moonlight faintly died, and yet, something glowed. In the river, a meter or so outside the base of the dam, an unnatural green light stole Brienne’s attention. She frowned, blinked yet the light continued to shine.

Upon closer look, it was the same green liquid Brienne discovered in Cersei’s attic room—still contained in a small glass similar to a flask in a chemistry laboratory. The glass floated and bobbed above the gate in the intake tunnel, trapped from flowing down the river.

Brienne abandoned her goal to leave and grabbed the closest slab of wood, about two meters long and three planks wide. Cersei’s touch corrupted everything and Brienne needed to remove it. The rain calmed once she dragged the wood to the edge of the river, but her wet dress chilled against her skin. With a hefty throw, she tossed one end of the wooden walkway into the river—as close to the intake tunnel as she could. The river almost swept the wood away, but she dug her boots into the ground to hold on and try again. All the while, Nora remained by her side, Brienne’s wordless cheerleader.

On the third try, she succeeded placing the planks of wood next to the intake tunnel. The skies opened slightly and allowed a rush of moonlight to glisten on the rolling waters. Brienne rubbed the cuticles of her thumbs as she placed one foot on the edge of the wood. It creaked. Another foot forward and the planks bent underneath her weight. Her boots, already damp, stepped forward with caution. Even if she fell into the river, she would have more than enough time to climb out before the waterfall’s descent. Although swollen, the river was not angry—at least, in front of the dam.

“Stop!”

Brienne ignored Jaime’s plea and Nora’s barking. Closer, the green liquid swirled around in its glass container.

“Brienne, stop being foolish!” he said.

“Foolish?” Brienne straightened herself and looked over her shoulder. If she did nothing to stop Cersei’s evil, she would be foolish. A faint breeze from the behind the dam rolled over her, but she was too furious to shiver. Jaime stood there, helpless and half drenched. At the edge of the river, he grimaced while Brienne glared at him. She yelled over the loud water, “I am no fool, not any more. You meant to get rid of me. And steal my money.”

“No—”

“You never intended to love me. You never wanted me at all. You only wanted _her._ You only want _her._ You called her a mistake and yet, you kept making it.”

“This is the first time I’ve ever seen her like this—”

“You’re blind. You’re foolish. You’re the most dishonorable man I’ve ever met.”

Jaime slumped.

Behind him, Cersei approached with a lit lantern.

Jaime followed Brienne’s eyes and looked at his sister. 

Before Jaime said anything, Cersei warned, “If you touch me, I’ll kill her.”

“Cersei...” he said as his sister walked closer to the river. 

Brienne, halfway on the planks and hovering over the river, shook her head. “You both meant to kill me from the beginning.” Brienne stepped forward, but Cersei blocked her from exiting the planks. With one kick, Cersei could throw the planks and Brienne into the river. Brienne doubted it would be easy to climb out of the river in soaked fabric—her layers would drag her into the water like a ball and chain, and Jaime would not save her. Nora would try helplessly to pull her out.

But Cersei did not kick the wood into the river. She stepped forward, her feet gentle and calculating, and her body cornered Brienne further on the wooden planks—trapped. Brienne stepped backwards, deeper over the river, far enough to feel a thin wave of water cover the edge of her boots. 

Cersei held the lit lantern in front of her and said, “You’re a naive little dove, aren’t you? More cow than a bird, I must say. Jaime’s heart is far too soft for murder. I hoped your lack of beauty and reputation might soften the blow for him once you died, and he would marry again if necessary. He’s so busy with work I never expected him to discover my plan.” Cersei looked at Brienne with scorn and lowered her voice, a shade above a whisper. “It doesn’t matter. I could do anything and he would still love me.”

“How can he not know you’re a murderer?” Brienne clenched her fists. Her ring finger burned under the pressure. Could love have blinded Jaime to the point he did not question his son’s death? He was too blind to believe Brienne when she pleaded for help. He was blind enough to think he could change Cersei. Brienne refused to close her eyes. Louder, Brienne said, “You’ve murdered before. This is nothing to you. You feel no guilt, nothing whatsoever.”

Cersei said nothing. She smiled at Brienne while Jaime stood on the edge of the river, powerless. He stepped closer, head to the side, listening.

Brienne broadened her shoulders, unmoved and unattached to the danger surrounding her. “You’ve murdered before you killed Joffrey.”

Cersei looked over her shoulder. Eyebrows tense, Jaime scowled as he looked at his sister. He truly was blind. “What did she say?” he asked.

The walkway underneath Brienne’s feet bounced slightly, but she paid it no mind and said, “You murdered your mother, didn’t you?”

“I murdered her murderer,” Cersei lashed out, “and far too late. I should have given him a quick death like Joffrey.”

Jaime shouted behind her, “You killed Tyrion?” His nose was white and pinched.

Cersei showed no shame, no remorse. The skin across her face tightened, showing her skeleton cheekbones. Her fingers clenched the lantern to the point she might have bruised the metal. She faced Jaime and said, “He was sick, too, not unlike Joffrey. We’re so careful with our pedigrees of horses and dogs, and we leave ourselves to chance and blind sentiment?”

Jaime’s glare burned—the same way he scowled when Brienne walked down in the crimson dress. He believed Cersei was an amazing woman, once. By his behavior, he had believed in her. Cersei suffocated him to the point he was not aware of her evil or her history. Jaime’s father did not confine her to an asylum because she was a woman; he submitted her because she murdered her younger brother. Jaime remained speechless and heartbroken.

Brienne stepped forward and growled, “They were your family.”

Cersei faced Brienne and thrust her lantern between them. “And you are not, nor do you have your own.”

From the slope of the slanting wood, Cersei matched Brienne’s height. If Cersei chose to force Brienne into the river, Brienne would bring Cersei in with her. 

“It’s about time this little project ends. Both you and this power house.” Cersei held the lantern above the intake tunnel, dangling it over the glowing green glass. “One slip of these fingers and you’ll both be swept away to a memory.”

Brienne was a slow learner, she discovered. It took her many months to unravel Jaime’s lies, it took many painful weeks for Brienne to confront the reality of Cersei poisoning the tea, and it took time to understand Missandei’s struggles. Brienne came to Lannisport and Casterly Rock for selfish reasons: to be a hero, to be significant. When reporters wrote of her name, even in glorious praise, she felt nothing—she learned it was not what she wanted after all. Brienne wanted affirmation from those who loved her more than anything else.

In this moment, the floating green reminded her of wildfire. It _was_ wildfire. Cersei planned to blow up the gates of the intake tunnel in order to ruin the penstocks and wheels in the cavern. 

Cersei planted one foot closer to land, ready to jump away as soon as she would drop the lantern. “He would save me over you,” she said, voice soft, meant to pity Brienne. “After everything I’ve done, he still loves me.”

Brienne looked at the small lever to the right of the intake tunnel. If she closed the gate, the intake tunnel would close and fill with water, forcing the wildfire flask to float and flow down the river. Wildfire could explode anywhere, and Brienne needed to protect the future—her power house.

“Cersei,” Jaime said, “stop.”

“Why? You don’t love her.”

“I do.”

“It’s not love you feel. Let me take care of it.”

Brienne was not a hero when she pulled the lever; she felt like a villain. By closing the intake tunnel, she forced thousands of people into darkness. She poured all of her strength into closing the steel gate. Every muscle of hers strained to press against the oncoming water, and with every second, the inward gate moved slower and harder. Metal clanked and echoes from the tunnel ceased.

Panic spread through Cersei’s eyes by the time she realized what happened. The intake tunnel filled with water. Floating, the wildfire flask tipped over. Murky green liquid spilled onto the water. Cersei snarled and threw her lantern at the wildfire.

The explosion spread violently. Brienne covered her eyes from the blinding light, and her ears rang with the sound of chaos. Water crashed onto her. The planks underneath her and Cersei jostled free and tilted downstream. Both women reached out as their stability faltered. Cersei’s nightgown was torn, and blood stained her chest.

Their moving surface hit a boulder and both of them fell backwards into the river. The splashes of their bodies were silent compared to the roar from the dam. Brienne held her head above the water, ignoring the cold seeping into her bones. Water tugged on her dress, pulling her under until her only choice was to grip into the wood with her sore and spent muscles. The moon, now watching her every struggled breath, gave the red stains on her sleeves a rather gray and dull appearance.

At the base of the dam, a new hole appeared and poured out water.

“Take my hand!” Jaime said, following along the river while Cersei and Brienne held onto the planks.

Cersei reached for Jaime, but he did not reach for her. He reached for Brienne.

Brienne avoided his hand. She tilted her side of the plank towards the bank of the river. Beside her, Cersei kicked and screamed as she was forced deeper into the river.

The water had numbed Brienne’s fingers to the point she hardly felt the slippery rocks. One rock yanked loose and almost sent her into the current with no sense of recourse. Jaime scrambled to try and help her, but by the time he arrived, Brienne had pulled her chest and shoulders halfway onto land.

“Jaime,” Cersei pleaded.

He ignored her. 

When Brienne let go of the wood, a great weight lifted off of her, and the planks continued their journey down the river with Cersei.

“Jaime!”

Halfway on land and still refusing Jaime’s help, Brienne turned to the river. Cersei had drifted to the center. A loud gush of water burst through and collapsed the dam under the weight of the river. Impounded water emptied forward, an uncontrollable flood—storming water, logs and mud barreled rapidly. Brienne stretched further to grab the roots of an oak sapling. By her own strength, Brienne pulled herself onto higher ground—in time to turn and witness murky water crests cover Cersei.

Jaime watched, standing still and speechless while the water erased every sign of Cersei. Brienne wondered at what point Cersei fell down the waterfall—she never heard Cersei’s screams. Perhaps Cersei died how she feigned her previous death, her lungs filled with water in search of oxygen.

The realization of Cersei’s demise did not make Brienne smile. In fact, the thought of Cersei’s death was fleeting. One look at the river gave Brienne’s heart stab after stab of regret. The broken dam released a flood. She chose to save the power house over everything else.

Logs collided in front of her, reminding her of the danger to herself. The cold, now a permanent part of her, finally made her shiver.

Brienne stood and refused Jaime’s help. He followed her in the elevator, along with Nora, and they stood in darkness. The last bit of power allowed them to descend slowly into the cavern.

Muscles aching, she stumbled forward. The electrician for the evening followed Jaime, fearful—she could hear panic in his rambling voice. Jaime walked with Brienne, and Nora remained at her heels. At the entrance of the furnace room, Nora shook her coat, spraying a mist all around her.

The room glowed red like the Seven Hells, but it welcomed Brienne. Her numb skin stung the moment heat spread over her. She sat as close to the furnace as she could without burning herself.

Lights flickered. Not only did she shut off the power supply to thousands of people, but she indirectly caused a flood that potentially damaged houses or neighborhoods. She knew her money would be spent to repair the intake tunnel and clear debris, not repair Casterly Rock as she promised. She failed her promise to the servants who counted on her. The thought stung more than salt on a gashed wound. Brienne wanted to be a hero, and yet, it was never her purpose. Her seemingly small choice of closing the intake tunnel affected others far more than anything else she did. No further words of false promises or rescue came to her mind—it was not in her ability to make things right, not now. 

“The power...” she said.

“Is off.”

“I could have pushed her off. I could have taken the lantern. I could have taken her and the wildfire with me, and the explosion wouldn’t have happened, the flood wouldn’t have happened—”

“Brienne, you did the best you could. None of this is your fault.”

She stared into the furnace, transfixed by its glowing embers. Her skin continued to shake. 

Jaime approached her, his hands out of reach when he asked, “Will you let me help you?”

Brienne glared at him. He stood above her, but she saw the eyes of a child in pain, a child in fear. His outfit was as soaked as her own, and his throat tightened. She winced and said, “Help me? Like when I discovered Cersei poisoned me?”

He fell to his knees and returned her grimace. “I’ll hate myself for the rest of my life for not believing you.”

“She said it was all part of the plan, to find a young, lonely woman to manipulate—”

Jaime leaned closer and held Brienne’s shoulders. Cold fabric pressed into her skin. “That was hers. I never knew she planned to murder you, I would have never agreed to that. She and I agreed for me to marry for wealth, and yes, we were careful to select someone who lived far away and had limited family. We didn’t want anyone to reveal Cersei’s identity. I chose you because…”

“I was rich. I was lonely. I’m ugly.”

“No.” Jaime rubbed her shoulders with his thumbs and insisted she look him in his eyes. “I had no idea what you looked like. We learned your father had just passed, you had little family and—when you said to me that you didn’t require love... I thought we would be happy as…”

“Partners.”

He winced because it was true. “More than that now,” he said. 

“You slept with me.” Brienne looked away.

“I thought—I thought you knew. You said you knew.”

She glared again with interest. “What else do I not know?”

His eyes swam in his own grief for a moment. “I’m afraid you know more than I ever did.” 

Brienne’s chest grew warm as her eyes began to see better. She saw Jaime for who he was. He was his own version of a victim—a damsel in distress. He leaned closer and pressed his forehead against hers. His hands sought after hers, and this time, her hands were limp and lifeless. He muttered apology after apology, all while Brienne closed her eyes and let him sink to embrace her—his arms now wrapped around her and his face buried against her chest. She found it hard to trust him, but his eyes and hands were terrible at lying. The strange fear of her death no longer affected her. She lost her innocence, finally—she was no longer a child. The child was Jaime, stuck forever in the attic of his mind and cursed sister. His sins had plagued him since the beginning, since she met him. He had been so deeply rooted in a lie far too dangerous to climb out alone. He grieved his own choices, even after he made those same choices again and again. Brienne felt armor growing over her as she warmed, both under Jaime’s hold and the ember’s radiance. She was once too sensitive, too raw—the thorns and pin-pricks of so many words now hardly affected her. 

“What do we do now?” he asked.

She did not answer except with the wrap of her arm around Jaime’s back. The flood might have destroyed houses and dreams the same way it destroyed Cersei. If anyone found Cersei and recognized her as the prior Mrs. Lannister, perhaps this would be another time to flee another town cursed with her entangling scandal. Brienne only knew she would not wear black.


	22. Chapter 22

They could never go back, that much was certain. Brienne was now hundreds miles away in a foreign land. At times, the past still haunted them. The flood had destroyed Casterly Rock, and nearby, Cersei’s body was discovered underneath debris.

It was a bit of a blur to leave Lannisport in such a rush. Perhaps Brienne had left Westeros’ shores before Missandei. Brienne had failed her promise of securing employment for several servants; Casterly Rock’s ruin could not employ them. After short and guilty deliberation, Brienne offered employment at Hura Falls as compensation. When it became clear that the scandal of Cersei’s identity would follow Brienne and Jaime forever, she donated Hura Falls Power House to the city of Lannisport under several conditions. She required that the city must provide access to power for all inhabitants within a thirty mile radius and a portion of profits must be set aside each year as grants for improvements to city dwellings and infrastructure. Those improvements would be decided by an established and diverse committee, regardless of nationality or gender.

Now, the Lannisters were immigrants. They moved to Volantis in Essos, where Jaime and Brienne both found employment as railway engineers. Even in their humble home, Brienne caught Jaime’s smile, unbidden and usually without warning. She returned his grin, of course, but memories of their disasters came in fleeting moments. Brienne endured horrors at the hands of Cersei. Upon eliminating all secrets with Jaime, it appeared he suffered from Cersei in his own way… and for much longer. 

He had spent years alone in the attic with Cersei once their mother passed, and his father only traveled with him a handful of times every year. Cersei had told Jaime that their brother died naturally, and when she was forced into an asylum, Jaime lost his only support. He poured himself into education to cope with the loss of his family. When his father passed, Jaime rescued Cersei, and their relationship began. It seemed peaceful, Jaime had said, to walk out of Casterly Rock hand in hand. Cersei had proposed she use a missing poor girl’s identity. They had married, and when the septa discovered Cersei’s true identity, it was Jaime’s idea to pay for the septa’s silence. Jaime had arrived home to find their son had already passed, but of course, Cersei said Joffrey died naturally. Their relationship had been built on lies and manipulation. 

Jaime and Brienne emerged stronger. She supposed, sooner or later, everyone came to a moment of trial. Evil tormented everyone in some way and to win, one needed to give into battle. Jaime and Brienne conquered their battle; evil followed them no more.

Nora, with her grayed snout and dry nose, slept most hours of the day. She had yet to depart to her heavenly hunting grounds, but she enjoyed scraps of meat and gentle pets from the loudest Lannister of the house: Tyrion. He was only in his fifth year of life and one of their only links to Jaime’s past.

Sitting beside Nora and an electric fan, Tyrion asked, “Kostagon Daevon tymagon?” His Valyrian sounded fluent.

“Kessa,” Brienne said, never quite sure how her Common Tongue accent bled into her words. “Play outside, and only in the yard.”

Tyrion left, giggling excitedly. Brienne smiled and rubbed the sapphire ring she had purchased for herself. Tyrion inherited more of Brienne’s traits. Freckles pecked his cheeks, and his skin easily burned under the harsh Volantis sun. Wavy blond hair framed his face, similar to Jaime’s locks.

Jaime, still sporting short hair and stubbled jaw, entered as their son closed the door, and Nora lifted her nose to smell the air. He gave Nora a treat and scratches before he sat next to Brienne’s chair with a handful of letters from the post and the paper. Through the window, they both watched Tyrion play with his neighbor friend, throwing balls in the gated front yard.

Crumbling, dead begonia flowers wilted in a vase between Jaime and Brienne; their blooms were now a lifeless brown. Sitting across the small coffee table, Jaime said, “Do you think he’ll be gone long enough…”

Brienne flashed a smirk in her husband’s direction. Surely, he knew her answer.

He smiled back, impressed by his own attempt to woo his way under her frock, which happened more often than Brienne cared to admit—to anyone. In truth, they lived a happy life, one filled with almost perpetual peace and pleasant ritual. Happiness was not a possession to be prized, it was a quality of thought, a state of mind. 

Jaime handed over Brienne’s letters, rubbing her hand briefly during the transfer. At times, he commented on how he loved it when she blushed. By the spark in his eye, this was one of those times.

He stood, never quite comfortable in one spot for too long, and leaned closer to kiss her forehead. Part of their ritual included Brienne reading her letters while Jaime tinkered with inventions, such as a motorized drum to help wash clothes. His mind and hands never stopped working.

Brienne’s eyes followed him as he left the room, and she debated joining him. The sight of Renly’s letter won her attention in the end, however, and she opened his letter. He had been quite shocked to read of her move many years ago, but he was happy to report that he and Loras remained together in their own way. Without romantic details, Renly said Loras and he entered into partnership, starting an engineering company. They opened a business in Dorne. Loras wrote less frequently but more often about their amusing squabbles. According to them both, Olenna spent her time with her granddaughter’s dramatic love adventures.

Before Brienne wrote her response to Renly, she opened her last letter, which came from Naath. Missandei and Brienne were thick in written conversation about the politics of Naath, and how it was a struggle to push Westerosi influence and power out of the islands. Missandei stayed in contact with several of Brienne’s former servants at Casterly Rock, and Brienne heard of their unionizing. Their combined efforts allowed them to fight for better wages, better working hours and they collectively organized with other workers in Lannisport. In her current letter, Missandei suggested she would visit Volantis again. Brienne would encourage it, unashamed by the fact that Missandei’s husband used to be a servant for the Lannisters. 

The paper, underneath her letters, was not a Valyrian paper as Brienne expected. It came from Lannisport—a rare treat for her. She smiled once she read an article on blackbirds; it seemed that once again Brienne was deep in the woods of Casterly Rock. She heard their call, so comfortable on the autumn morning. There would be no disturbing of their peace until Nora loped through the undergrowth to find them. They would be shocked into silly agitation, making a monstrous attempt to flap their wings to escape.

How strange an article on blackbirds recalled the past, and Brienne felt thankful she did not read it aloud to Jaime. He drifted into memories of the past for far longer than her.

In truth, Brienne would save the paper and reread it again and again, reliving the color, scent and sound of Westeros. She heard the lapping water, felt the mists of waterfalls and smelled the salty sea—so different from Volantis.

Here, in Essos, everything felt different no matter how many years they made it their home. In truth, it was the difference they desired. Their windows looked upon vineyards rather than pines, and the weather never dropped below freezing—a haunting reminder of the coldness in Lannisport. As an immigrant, Brienne missed Westerosi cuisine and the ease of making friends. The Westerosi friends they met in Volantis often left within a year to another city in Essos. Jaime, Brienne and their family preferred to grow their roots into the soil.

Jaime entered the room again while he wiped a wet cloth over his hands; his eyes eagerly peered out the window.

“Come here,” he said.

Brienne set her papers down and rose. She stepped behind him, able to look over his shoulder. In the vineyards, banners and festivities had started for the annual harvest.

“We should go,” he said with a tease in his voice. He turned, his eyes almost too bright to refuse.

Mrs. Wylla, their housekeeper, insisted she did not mind watching Tyrion. Brienne considered the crowds of people at a wine harvest festival. Before, her cheeks would have burned at the thought. She had lost her diffidence from her younger self—hopeful and eager, handicapped by a rather desperate gaucherie and filled with an intense desire to please. Memories spanned over the years like a bridge, and making new ones sounded pleasant.

Brienne smiled.

Jaime called out to Mrs. Wylla. He took Brienne’s hand, leading her through the door as they shouted goodbye to their son.

Past their gates, they walked by towering bougainvilleas—in bloom perpetually. Their bright fuchsia color almost reminded Brienne of the field of carnations, but this plant tried to scratch the sky, not cover the ground. Even if it did, even if she dared to recreate their first time, the bougainvillea was thick with thorns.

Hand in hand, the couple turned a corner and walked in the shade. Their boots kicked dust into the air. Bicycles with baskets rode these streets more often than cars or carriages. Some of Brienne’s favorite Volantis memories were cycling the hills with Jaime alongside her. He had a look of a calm excitement about him—like a child given free roam of an abandoned forest. Glancing at him now, he expressed a similar affect. Brienne no longer held back her smile.

Shouts and cheers in Valyrian carried in the wind as they approached the vineyard, but a mask of trees and brush covered their view. The leaves of these plants curled from drought, as no one watered them except the sky. Based on their gnarly trucks and roots, they survived regardless. Brienne could not name them, but she appreciated them.

A pile of crates blocked their usual route to the vineyard, so Brienne and Jaime flowed like water through a different path—smaller but promising. Large vegetation surrounded them and not a freckle of sunlight bled through. Their shoulders touched as they walked, and Brienne could not shake the feeling of Casterly Rock from her mind. Once it invaded, it lingered. 

Their intimacy was a pleasant balm after all. He leaned closer to her—this new environment excited him.

The bushes opened, and the sun returned—but a haunting image confronted her. They were between a tall row of oleanders, twice as tall as either of them. In bloom, with their sprinkle of white flowers, Brienne recognized the smell immediately.

Jaime squeezed her hand and quickened his pace—Brienne wordlessly followed him around the corner, half expecting to see Casterly Rock when she rounded the toxic plant…

But she saw the vineyard. Sunlight glistened on its tiled roof, the vineyard was a proud beacon of her present and future, not the past. With a single breath and smile, the past disappeared from her mind, and she was in her new paradise: freedom with Jaime, unrestrained and full of love. She would only see Casterly Rock in her dreams.

They entered the festival, with its cheers and inaudible hum of conversation. A few drums gave the ground a rumble. Beyond the guest filled courtyard, the rows of climbing grape vines shivered in the sea breeze. Brienne approached until grape vines surrounded them, taller than they appeared from far away. Bits of shade covered her from the waist down, and the crowd melted away.

She reached for a bundle of red grapes attached to a vine. Once waxy, the grape showed a mark where she touched it. Her nails had grown, and she examined her hand to see if the wax showed on her fingertip. It was invisible, it seemed, like the warmth of the sun on her neck.

Jaime plucked a singular grape and offered it to her. She replied with wide eyes. They played their silent game of encouraging each other into adventure. Brienne looked at his hand, so large in comparison to a tiny grape. His hands had been more rough than normal, but she did not mind. He was gentle enough to plop the grape between her lips—a subtle drag across her skin like he wanted to tease her. Brienne closed her lips around the grape, watching him as she popped it in her mouth. Through the sturdy skin, sweetness pooled over her tongue. She hummed her approval.

It seemed Jaime could not wait for her to tease him, as he had already plucked his own grape and tossed it in his mouth. He nodded.

When the wind changed, it brought the scent of fermentation along with it—which spurred Jaime to ramble on about the process of making wine. Brienne listened, not without a smile or two, as she could never quite figure out the right moment to interject during his passionate monologues. She loved them regardless of the time. They walked further between the row of vines, soft boots on damp dirt.

Brienne’s tongue rolled the grape seeds in her mouth before she swallowed them. Something about the sweet texture gave her a sense of quiet, even when Jaime’s voice filled her ears.

But his words stopped. She stood still and turned, soon confronted by both of his hands stretched for her cheeks. He pressed against the grape vines, surrounding her between dozens of leaves and taut wire on her back. His unpredictable nature remained. Even when he kissed her, with their bodies pressed tightly to hide in the greenery, Brienne’s heart shocked itself into a gallop.

He tasted like sugar and felt like a dream.

He was real—real enough to ground her, and she grounded him.

He held her, much like their first kiss. There was no one to interrupt them.

When he pulled back, Brienne compared her current shirtwaist of cotton to her golden silk dress from years ago. Jaime’s fingers traveled over pleats of white fabric rather than embroidered flowers. She felt his touch more now. She had less wealth now. But when he pulled back with that look of passion in his eye, she did not mind their life of modesty. It was safe.

Safety gave them the comfort of romance, and together, they walked into the festivities. Jaime surprised Brienne by purchasing two glasses of wine. The crisp collision of their glass bowls filled her ears and the vibration hummed through the stem—so faint between her fingers. Alcohol cast its spell over Jaime as he bobbed his head to the rhythm of the drums. 

A septon, dressed with a necklace of ivory, approached and asked if Jaime and Brienne would like to tread grapes. It was Brienne’s chance to surprise Jaime, and she agreed for both of them. The septon smiled and pointed them to a wide bucket the size of a bathtub filled with thousands of ripe grapes.

Whispering into her ear, Jaime said, “You think we drank wine pressed by feet?”

Brienne held back her smile. The septon instructed them to take off their shoes.

Jaime crouched lower and loosened his boots. Under his breath, he said, “I could have taken those off stockings and garters earlier.”

“Lucky for you,” she said, “I wore socks today.”

Their mild bickering continued, even when the cold sensation of wet grapes surrounded their bare feet. Stems, seeds and pulp squished underneath their weight. Fragrant sweetness floated into their lungs. The septon left to speak with a family from Northern Westeros.

Brienne stepped, one foot after another, to the same rhythm of Jaime and the drums. Dozens of people enjoyed the festival around them, and not a single person seemed to glance at her. In a way, they still had their privacy. 

Teasing, Brienne said, “You know they won’t use this. I hear they use it as fertilizer.”

“I know.” He smirked. “I met with the man who designed the press here. That machine does all the work.”

He had always adored their little arguments, so long as they did not lead towards a massive misunderstanding. At this point in their marriage, she never understood anyone more than him. She looked into his eyes and asked with a smile, “Is there anything you don’t know?”

He let out a singular huff of laughter and pondered her question. She half expected him to say he understood everything, but he asked, “Why are you smiling?”

Brienne almost forgot. He needed words of praise, words of affirmation—proof that she loved him. After what he went through in his lifetime, she refused to blame him for such a need. She, too, adored his breathless acts of love or his whispered words of affection and assurance. This was an opportunity.

She leapt towards him—her hands cupped around his stubbled jaw—and kissed him. He and his feet froze under her touch, as Jaime was not used to displaying affection. If people watched or cared, Brienne ignored them. She held the kiss against his lips, slow and meaningful. Once she pulled back a few centimeters, she captured him with her eyes and said, “Because I love you.”

Clearly, he was embarrassingly in love—he blushed and reached for her hand. She squeezed his palm in hers as they finished their stomping.

Outside the sludge, their feet stained red like blood—like berries. They were grapes after all, and the sweet aroma reminded Brienne she was safe. Jaime held her arm and hand while he ordered another two glasses of wine. Together, they sipped and smiled as they washed their feet under running water, but only so much of the stain washed away. When her eyes lingered longer on her heels, Jaime pulled Brienne closer, their hips almost joined.

They decided to walk back barefoot, carrying their items by the laces of their boots. Every new adventure gave Brienne a jolt of excitement. They both struggled with the past in their own way, but their love for the present, the future and each other bounded them together in a permanent marriage—two trees planted firmly in the ground, never to leave each other. They would support one another until the end of their days.

It was not the life Brienne had asked for when she was so young, and yet, she adored it. The dust and dirt on their walk back to their home erased all signs of stain. Tyrion’s vibrant eyes welcomed them both with a hug. His soft little hand dragged Brienne over to the corner of the yard—he was insistent on showing Brienne an insect he had found.

She expected herself to over-exaggerate her enthusiasm, but the sight of a bright orange dragonfly stunned her silent while her mouth fell open. Color brighter than a flower, the dragonfly finished its drink and flew upwards. Its grace reminded Brienne of the power of nature and how it surrounded her everywhere, whether that was in Westeros or Essos. In truth, this was her home, and the look of joy on Tyrion’s face made her smile.

When she glanced to the yard to see if Jaime saw the dragonfly, he was missing. Brienne held her breath. Tyrion tugged on her arm again because it was time for supper.

She helped their son inside, thankful for the new task. Looking at Tyrion had always brought her to happiness. The boy cheered over the meal before Jaime burst into the room. Both Brienne and Tyrion blinked. Jaime had replaced the dead begonias with fresh white crocus flowers, as pure as the ones Brienne saw at Casterly Rock. The vase fit perfectly at the center of the table, and Jaime smiled. 

Wordlessly, they closed the invisible book of their past and willingly looked to the future. Their months, or years in his case, of unrest had been put behind them. Brienne could breathe and so could he. Stains, oleanders and poor weather no longer held power over them. Scents of honey from dessert filled the air instead of poison, and Brienne saw Tyrion’s mouth water when Mrs. Wylla brought plates of layered, nutty pastries. Jaime, of course, eyed the seared meat and charred vegetable pieces. Brienne remembered a time when these dishes tasted foreign to her, and now she craved them.

They served their plates and discussed which novel to read before bed. Jaime and Brienne shared a rather secret smile over the crocus flowers.

“Can we read it in Valyrian?” Tyrion asked.

“Why not?” Jaime said, “It’ll take me longer, but I could use the practice.”

A warbler fluttered outside their window and flew towards the setting sun, clear and bright. Not a cloud, rumble or bit of darkness covered the sky; it was as calm and peaceful as Brienne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this fic! Your comments and engagement are so nice to read! A huge thank you to @theunpaidcritic, who talked with me for months about fiction, inspiration, analysis _and_ beta read (edited, let’s be real) my mess of a work (seriously, so many phrasing issues ha.) Thank you to @2manycharacters, aka my spouse, for beta reading, listening to my rambles about plots and supporting my writing schedule! I’ve been writing fanfic for about a year now, and it is amazing to see how much I’ve grown as a writer—and I owe a lot of thanks to you all for your encouragement!
> 
> What I’m writing next: I _hope_ I can crank out one more longish fic before I give birth in Feb. My next fic will likely be a Modern Fantasy AU based on a popular Korean Drama called _Guardian: The Lonely And Great God_ also known as _Goblin_. Basically, I’m going to have Brienne as a cursed and immortal goddess, and Jaime is a young man fated to be her groom. You’ll see magic, you’ll see Grim Reapers, you’ll see Brienne kickin’ ass—is this going to be a crack fic? Mayhaps. But the premise is just _too_ good. I’ve also been asked to write an Agatha Christie AU!! <3
> 
> Anyway, follow me on tumblr (@cytarabi) and chat—I love interacting with you all and this fandom! :) <3


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